


The Shakespearian Code

by ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Tons of lovely fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 29,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic/pseuds/ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have a case with a murderer obsessed with Shakespeare</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

** Chapter One **

  
“Get up John, Lestrade has found a body! He thinks it is suicide; I can’t wait to prove him wrong!” Apparently the hours lie in John had intended to indulge in on his day off this Wednesday was not happening. He should have seen it coming really; he never got his lie in on his day off for one reason or another. Generally though, Sherlock was to blame for waking him up.

“Go ‘way ‘Lock. Tired. ‘S my day off.” He grumbled shoving his over excited partner away. Sherlock’s weight lifted from the bed and there was silence for a moment. ‘That was easy,’ John thought to himself, closing his eyes and settling down to sleep.

“John…” The consulting detectives voice materialised by John’s ear, “John, I blew up the kettle. Don’t be mad.” John’s eyes flicked open.

“That was last week Sherlock; you are going to have to try harder than that.” There was silence once more as Sherlock made his way to the foot of the bed and grabbed the end of the duvet with both hands

“Sherlock Holmes, I suggest you put the end of that duvet down now or the next murder case will be your own.” John threatened as he felt the end of the duvet lift slightly and a breeze pass over his ankles and calves. Sherlock froze for a second before yanking the sheets off anyway causing John to squeal as he was exposed to the frigid morning air.

“Sherlock Holmes I am going to kill you!” John shouted, completely waking up and jumping out of bed to tackle his partner to the ground with a satisfying thud.

“But you said try harder.” Sherlock protested, squirming under John “Let me up.”

“Nope.” John grinned, poking his tongue out at Sherlock who scowled furiously beneath him.

“John.” Sherlock whined, “Let me up.” John considered the action for a moment, grinning down at Sherlock before rolling his eyes and getting off his partner.

“Happy now?” John asked turning to rifle through their cupboard to find something to wear.

“Not really. Do we have to eat breakfast?”

“Yes.” John replied without turning around. “We have to eat breakfast, most important meal of the day. Go and put some toast on, if you can manage not to blow up the toaster as well.”  
Sherlock frowned and sighed before turning out the door of the bedroom. John smiled to himself; maybe he had a hope in hell of domesticating his partner at some point in the next century, perhaps next month he’d try and take Sherlock shopping at Tesco again. Then again, the trip to Ikea to get a new kettle hadn’t been fun- CRASH- John’s hopeful trail of thought finished. Please don’t have broken the toaster; please don’t have broken the-

“John! I have broken the toaster!” Of course Sherlock had. John sighed and made his way downstairs to the inevitable chaos in the kitchen.

Sherlock stood with a plate of toast in each hand and a dented toaster at his feet. The cable had snapped and there were crumbs scattered everywhere. Almost as if Sherlock was trying to recreate a scene from Hansel and Gretel. You did not need to be a consulting detective to know that Sherlock had turned to put the plates on the table and knocked the toaster off the work surface and sent it flying.

“I have made you toast.” He offered weakly, giving John a small smile asking him to please not be angry and ban Sherlock from this apparently exciting case.

“You have also made a mess ‘Lock.” John sighed.

“But I made you toast with jam on it.” Sherlock countered, trying to get John to forget about the toaster.

“The toaster Sherlock.”

“Toast and jam? I’m sorry John.” Sherlock apologised. John sighed again and took a plate from Sherlock and bit into the toast.

“You did a good job with it.” John smiled but groaned internally at the thought of returning to Ikea. At this praise Sherlock beamed and ushered John into the living room.

“Sit down. I’ll sort out the toaster.” He directed, hurrying John out of the room and throwing away the now useless toaster and sweeping up the crumbs. Hopefully that would be enough to please John and he would not have to go to Ikea tomorrow. However, John would probably make him go because he was the one who broke the toaster.

A few minutes later Sherlock returned to the living room, pressed a quick kiss to John’s lips and headed off upstairs to brush his teeth, leaving John in a surprised silence. He shrugged and made his way to the kitchen, smiling at how clean it was in comparison to the original state it was in. He shoved his plate (and Sherlock’s) in the dishwasher and grumbled slightly about how his partner was incapable of loading the dishwasher (probably below his massive intellect or something) but then again he could not complain too much, he had just sorted out the kitchen. He was still coming to Ikea tomorrow though, John was certain of that. He closed the dishwasher and made his way up the bathroom.

After Sherlock had, hidden the tooth paste (twice), nudged John repeatedly to make him miss his mouth with the tooth brush (four times) he finally persuaded John that if he brushed his teeth anymore he wouldn’t have any more teeth to brush the two men finally stumbled- read Sherlock practically skipped and dragged John out with him- out onto a chilly Baker Street and set about hailing a taxi.

“Where did Lestrade say he the body was?” John asked, wondering if this was going to be a long and cold morning, a pattern nearly all winter cases followed.

“Morgue, found in the Thames though. Luckily we don’t have to hang around on the banks of that infernal river.”

“Sherlock, that ‘infernal river’ is a huge point of London, it’s a landmark, it is-“

“The reason we’ve had so many problems with suspects, they all jump in the bloody thing before I can catch them.” Sherlock rebutted.

“We can catch them, Sherlock.” John corrected putting extra emphasis on the ‘we’.

“Irrelevant. Still it’s useful for some things.”

“I’m not sure everyone would consider the Thames useful because it gives you cases.”

“Perhaps not. But the local criminals certainly deem it useful.”

“Not necessarily a good thing Sherlock.” John reminded his partner as he finally flagged down a taxi and directed the driver to Saint Barts’ morgue.


	2. Chapter Two

**** Chapter Two  
  


“So the body is through here. No identity on the girl so far and no reports of a missing person. However she was found with faux flowers threaded through her hair which I suppose helps us identify her a little.” Detective Inspector Lestrade explained as he lead Sherlock and John to where Molly had laid out the body. “Though there isn’t much else, she was in a white dress; at least it was white, by the time the water had got to it, it was more of a murky grey. And there’s this mark round her ankle…”  Sherlock instantly bought out his magnifying glass and began examining the girl’s right ankle.

“Irrelevant Detective Inspector. Childhood scar I presume. Best to check with the parents. She is awfully pale, side effect of drowning, John?”

“Yes. I would say so, although, she'd have had to be fairly pale to begin with to end up like that." John agreed.

"So a suicide then?" Lestrade asked.

"Aha, no." Sherlock replied, "Look at how these flowers are tied into her hair. They have been forced in. Look, it's hard to tell because of the water but they have practically been knotted into her hair and this one still has a price tag on, she wouldn't have left it on. She was probably going out partying." Sherlock said, pointed to a faded and dirty pink flower tied into the girl’s long and straggly blonde hair.

"Brilliant," John breathed, earning a proud smile from Sherlock, "Can you work out what shop the flowers are from?"

"No, the label is all waterlogged and the ink has run. But at least we know it wasn't suicide." With that Sherlock turned on his heels and strode out the door, his long coat billowing slightly and John walking quickly to catch up with him.

"So where are we investigating first?" John asked as they got into the fresh air.

"We are not."

"What?"

"You heard me John. You know how I abhor repeating myself. There's nothing we can do until we find her parents or the killer kills again."

"You think the killer will kill again?"

"It is likely- I know is sounds pessimistic but it was after all, a very elaborate murder for it to be a onetime thing. The flowers in her hair were an unnecessary detail."

"And you didn't tell Lestrade?"

"He will come to his own conclusion at some point." Sherlock replied offhandedly, "Besides, I am sure you had some kind of plan for today, it is your day off. What would you like to do?"

John thought for a moment. He didn't really want to go to Ikea, but they needed a new toaster and he was unlikely to have the chance tomorrow...

"Ikea." He said firmly, "Let's go to Ikea and replace the toaster, you broke." Sherlock groaned dramatically.

"I don't want to."

"Tough." John hailed a cab anyway and pulled Sherlock in with him.   
  
Three hours later and they were still traipsing round the irksome furniture shop. The first hour was wasted because they couldn't find the kitchen section, the second wasted as they tried to queue to order the toaster they'd found (and agreed on) only to find that it wouldn't be in stock for another three months and the third hour was spent trying to find the kitchen section again and bickering over which toaster they would get (John wanted a normal sized silver one, Sherlock wanted the oversized expensive one “but John, I could get a whole human hand in there!” “It is a toaster Sherlock not a hand fryer). In the end, John won. Finally they found themselves in the checkout queue.

"It's a shame they don't do self-service hey John?" Sherlock teased, he was completely bored by this point.

"Not funny Sherlock."

“I think the queue at Tesco is more fun."

"You only say that because last time we were there those two women got into an argument."

"I know it was brilliant. And I can't believe the blonde one had no clue the brunette was having an affair with her husband."

"Which is of course why you decided to point it out _my love_." John's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

 "Love you too John," Sherlock replied, pretending to be oblivious to John's sarcasm and leaning down to kiss his cheek.

"Next!" The checkout lady called and before they knew it Sherlock and John were (finally) making their way home, despite Sherlock making rude comments about the checkout lady's marriage.


	3. Chapter 3

** Chapter three **

Sherlock and John returned to 221B after an... Eventful shopping trip.

"I'll put the kettle on then shall I?" John said as Sherlock sprawled himself across the sofa.

"Bring jammy dodgers too!" Sherlock called after him.

 "Get your own biscuits," John yelled back as he flicked the switch on the kettle and set about finding two mugs without eyeballs or fingers or some other obscure body part in them. "Sherlock, where are the clean mugs?"

"Bathroom sink!" Oh of course. The bathroom sink, where else.

"You know we own a perfectly good kitchen sink and a dishwasher right?"

 "Boring." Sherlock sighed, "Hurry up."

John finished pouring the tea and bought the mugs into the next room. He placed the mugs on the coffee table and lifted Sherlock's legs so he could sit on the couch too. Sherlock immediately turned around so he could lie with his head in John's lap.

"You can't drink tea like that." John commented, taking a sip from his own mug. Sherlock grunted.   
"Where are my biscuits?"

"In the biscuit tin."

"Why?"

"Because you were being lazy and wouldn't come and get them yourself."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment before Sherlock's phone buzzed. He instantly reached for it, scanned the text and began typing a reply rapidly.

"Who is it?"

"Lestrade."

"What does he want?"

"He has found the parents. I said we would be at the Yard as soon as possible." Sherlock jumped off the couch and began throwing on his coat and scarf, "Come on John,"

"But my tea-"  
"But the case."

"Fine." John resigned, standing reaching for his coat. "You owe me you know.

“I always end up owing you.”

“That’s because you always end up taking up all of my days off.”

“And what would you be doing instead?”

“Sleeping.”  John retorted.

“Wrong! You wouldn’t be sleeping.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’d be bored and therefore shooting the wall.” Sherlock grinned, “Come on, you love these cases really, else you’d be stuck in a mundane job, with a boring wife, in a mundane place-“

“Yes thank you Sherlock.” John cut of his partner, “Let’s go question these parents.”

**X                                                                                        X                                                                                  X**

The parents of Olivia Harding (which was apparently the identity of the girl from the river) sat quietly in Lestrade’s office. Clearly they were well of and had doted on their only child, she had probably been good in school and encouraged to do well by her parents. The very example of a well off upper-middle class family in London. The wife had clearly been crying and her husband had comforted her (made obvious by the damp patch on his blue shirt Sherlock noted) however now they both sat calmly and with an element of composure waiting for the next set of questions to be asked.

“They are through here. The wife is a bit emotional but she seems to have calmed down now. Do not upset her again.” Lestrade directed as he led Sherlock and John to his office. Sherlock stepped inside and smiled at the detective inspector.

“Thank you. We will take it from here. Hello Sherlock Holmes sorry for your loss.” Sherlock turned to the two parents and offered them his hand, completely stunning John into silence. He was never this polite, although, he hadn’t had a case in weeks and this was probably just an attempt to not screw everything up.

“Oh, hello Mr Holmes, we almost didn’t recognise you without your hat.” The husband stood and greeted Sherlock. The smile on Sherlock’s face faded slightly, John had to stifle a laugh. There was a moment’s pause before Sherlock replied.

“Now we have got a few questions to ask. Firstly, who was your daughter with last night?” The calm and soothing air to Sherlock’s voice vanished as he took a seat.

“Her boyfriend, he’s such a nice lad though, I am sure he wouldn’t do anything. They were going to a party, her best friend’s eighteenth. She’d hired a boat on the Thames they were going to celebrate on that.” The wife gushed.

“Brilliant.” Sherlock muttered to himself, John elbowed him sharply in the side, worried the parents had heard. Sherlock shot John a look before continuing, “I need the boyfriend’s name and the best friend’s name.”

“Kyle Dobson and Eliza Smith, I can write their addresses down for you.” The husband supplied reaching for a post it note and a pen from Lestrade’s desk, scribbling down the names and addresses and handing the paper to Sherlock.

“Thank you for your help.” Sherlock said, rising from the chair and beginning to leave the room.

“Wait Sherlock, on your daughter’s ankle she had a mark, we assume this was a childhood scar, correct?” John asked quickly.

“No, Olivia never had a scar…” The wife said slowly.

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, his attention restored, “That’s interesting thank you.” He offered the parents one more smile before striding out the office. “Lestrade, it was murder. She had something tied to her ankle to weigh her down after she was pushed off the boat. Begin to search the Thames; I am going to speak to the boyfriend.”

“Sherlock, there is no point in searching the Thames now, we’ll never find it.”

“Then search over the body, try and find out what was holding her down.”

“Sherlock-“ Lestrade tried to reason with the consulting detective but he’d already vanished from the office and was outside trying to hail a cab to take him across London.


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter four **

Kyle Dobson was not the kind of person you’d expect Olivia Harding to date to say the least. Sherlock had been questioning the boy for an hour by this point and was getting sick of the boy’s terrible grammar, colloquial language and cluttered household. He was the very opposite of the appearance of Olivia’s family. Apparently Olivia and Kyle had started dating at the end of their GCSEs and been together ever since, and, while Olivia’s parents thought Kyle was a ‘nice lad’ it was becoming increasingly more evident to Sherlock that Kyle was not quite as nice as Olivia’s parents had thought. He had clearly been involved with large amounts of underage alcohol abuse, had a smoking habit that he just couldn’t seem to kick and to top it all off had been kicked out the house by his parents and was now living on benefits. Olivia had clearly just been dating him because he had the ‘bad boy’ appeal and it was a way of rebelling against her parents who unfortunately had to say they liked him in order to stop their daughter running away with such riff raff. At several points in the conversation Sherlock nearly revealed this point to Kyle at which point John had kicked him rather sharply in the shin, after all, Kyle looked like the kind of guy who would stick you with a knife and ask questions later and John didn’t really fancy being stabbed today. Well, not ever really.

“… An’ I’m sorry mate but there aint much else I can tell yous.”

“Did Olivia have any enemies? People she fought with?” Sherlock asked exasperatedly.

“Nope. ‘Liv was well nice, everyone got on wiv her. I guess there was this one bloke can’t remember ‘is name for the life of me. But he really liked ‘Liv, he’d asked ‘er out a couple of times but she’s rejected him each time. Only ‘ad eyes for me. Maybe ‘e got jealous?”

“Perhaps. Was he at the party last night?” John asked, he could tell Sherlock was getting fed up.

“I couldn’t for the life of me tell you. I was fairly pissed last night. I’m sure Eliza ‘as a guest list.” Kyle rubbed his head, “Screw this ‘angover. Me ‘eads poundin’”

“We’ll leave you to recover, thank you for your time Mr Dobson.” John cut in before Sherlock could speak again. He too was also getting fed up with this nicotine smelling house. He stood to shake Kyle’s hand before dragging Sherlock from the untidy and foul house.

“To Eliza’s house? We probably need that guest list, it’s likely to be the most reliable source we have. I would imagine it’s fairly difficult to have gate crashers when you are on a boat. Although, if she’s as well off as Olivia’s parents looked then I wouldn’t put it past people to try.” John said as they walked along the side of the Thames, Sherlock glaring into the murky depths of the water.

“Yes, though the same goes for murders. Hail a cab… I hate this bloody river.”

“You will solve the case.” John said soothingly, hearing the tension in Sherlock’s voice.

“When do I not?”

“I know Sherlock, but you are trying to solve everything in a day at a million miles a second, not even on your best cases you do you solve things in a day.” John pointed out gently. “You will do it, you always do. I have complete faith in you. Just stop chomping at the bit and getting wound up because things aren’t happening as fast as you would like.”

“But it is a serial killer John!” Sherlock earned them a few odd looks for his sudden outburst.

“You normally like the serial killer cases.”

“But not when there’s only been one kill. I have to solve it before the yard does!”

“You don’t need to be so competitive all the time you know ‘Lock.”

“Yes but they only ask me because I’m smarter than them! If they solve it before me I have got no chance.”

“They will not.”

“They might.”

“Can I get that on tape?”

“Shut up John.” Sherlock elbowed John, chuckling slightly. “Shall we hail another cab?”

“Or maybe one day one of us could learn to drive.”

“Where is the fun in that?”

“You get to speed instead of attempting to persuade the cab driver too and it minimises the likelihood of you getting poisoned by dodgy cabbies.”

“Firstly, are you sure that’s a good idea? And I knew which pill I was taking.”

“Yeah. Right.” John disagreed.

“Are we still arguing about that? I knew you’d come for me.”

“We’d only just met!”

“You hit on me!”

“That has nothing to do with it and no I did not.”

“Of course John.”

“Do not flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to you, do that for me.”

“You pout if I don’t.”

“You like it when I pout.”

“Taxi!” John hollered, ending the argument and hailing a cab.

After a half an hour cab drive and an obscenely large taxi fee the consulting detective and the doctor found themselves in a more upper class section of London, the kind of area you’d imagine Olivia’s best friend to live. Clean, white, semi-detached housing, each with a small garden out the front, many framed with a perfectly painted white picket fence. Eliza Smith was every perfect teenage girl from those awful Hollywood films about teenagers in high school. She enunciated her words and spoke with clear Received Pronunciation. She dressed pristinely, applied her make-up in naturalistic amounts (she had, Sherlock observed, matched her lipstick and perfume brands and the French manicure she had applied to her nails had been done herself, evident by the barely noticeable dots of white on her finger tips), had perfect posture and was incredibly polite. She was not a killer, the girl had clearly never done a day’s work in her life, bar horse riding, which she appeared to have done in gloves due to the barely noticeable calluses on the across the joints on her fingers on the underside of her hands. She led Sherlock and John through to her living room, offered them a drink each and apologised because her parents weren’t in.

“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is John Watson, we’re here from Scotland Yard and we are investigating the death of your friend. We’d like to know the names of everyone at the party.” Sherlock said, shaking Eliza’s hand and taking a seat and the large cream couch.

“I’ll just go and grab my list and then we can go through this together. It’s so awful that this happened to her, she was lovely. Really lovely, couldn’t have asked for a better friend.” Eliza dabbed gently at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief (‘an embroidered handkerchief, what teenager carries an embroidered handkerchief?’ John thought to himself, ‘she probably hand stitched the pattern herself.’)

“Thank you Miss Smith.” Sherlock replied politely, waiting for her to exit the room before nudging John, “Even I was not bought up like this.” He whispered, glancing around the overly clean house. Seconds later Eliza re-entered the room holding a piece of paper.

“This should be all of the names, however I fear their may have been some gate crashers, my bouncers were not brilliant at their job despite the frankly awful sum of money Mummy and Daddy paid. Still I suppose they did their best.” Eliza sighed sitting opposite Sherlock and John. “Now are you looking for any names in particular?”

“Not a name as such. We were speaking to Olivia’s boyfriend, he said there was a guy who fancied Olivia, and we wondered if you’d asked him to your party?”

“Oh Will- Oh what did ‘Liv say his last name was. I can’t remember; apologies. No I didn’t invite him, though he could’ve easily got on the boat. There was a group on Facebook; he probably would’ve been able to view the date, time and location of the party. God, I feel like such an idiot.” Eliza dabbed again at her eyes.

“Don’t blame yourself. Was he friends with Olivia on Facebook?” John tried to soothe the sniffling teenager.

“I don’t think so, I think ‘Liv blocked him when he kept bothering her.”

“And you weren’t friends with him?” John asked, praying they could trace this suspect.

“No, ‘Liv complained about him constantly, it would’ve seemed a bit hypocritical to go and friend him.”

“And age wise was he older, younger, same age as Olivia?” Sherlock asked.

“Older I think, maybe by a year or two. I think they met at some house party a few years ago. I wasn’t there so I couldn’t tell you much about it. House parties are not my idea of fun.”

“Understandable.” Sherlock said bluntly, “I think that’s all we’ll need for now, thank you very much for your help.” He gave a quick smile and rose from his chair, “We’ll show ourselves out.”

 

“We could always get a tube home you know.” John suggested as they made their way back onto the street.

“Tedious.” Sherlock replied instantly as he strode along the pavement searching for the main road.

“Sherlock, we’re miles away from home, it’s going to cost us a ton of money to get home if we hail a taxi.” John protested.

“I hate trains; they’re filled with too many stupid people.”

“I suppose we could always ring Mycroft….” John trailed off.

“No. No way. We are not ringing my brother.”

“Sherlock you don’t have to be so obstinate. I’m just trying to find the most cost efficient way to get home. What’s the problem with your brother?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Yes okay Sherlock I understand you and your brother have this completely ridiculous out of proportion amount of sibling rivalry and god knows I can only cope with one stroppy Holmes brother at any given time but that does not explain why we cannot call Mycroft to come and pick us up.”

“Because he’ll know everything and rub it in that I haven’t worked it out yet.”

“Are you saying Mycroft is smarter than you? Can I get that recorded so I can piss you off whenever I feel like it?”

“No.” Sherlock said flatly, stopping dead and leaning against the street wall. “Let’s just get a cab John.”

“Fine.” John scowled and flicked his foot at a pigeon that had decided to venture slightly to near to the doctor. “Let’s go find a cab.”

They spent two hours searching for a cab to take them home. By this point John’s shoulder was beginning to ache due to the cold. Sherlock, as usual had simply made unhelpful snide comments and John was ready to give up and get the tube and leave Sherlock to find his own way home. He had mentally resigned himself to giving up when of course (in very much the same way your front door keys turn up when you’ve accepted you won’t find them) a free taxi came down the street. They found themselves home relatively quickly (well as quickly as possible in London rush hour traffic) and John scowled and forced Sherlock to pay the even bigger cab bill. Before heading back inside to pour his old congealed cup of tea down the sink and make a new cup of tea which he might actually be allowed to finish this time.

“So how are we going to find this guy Will? He sounds like he could be a suspect.”

“I don’t know John.” Sherlock said flatly.

“Someone must know him.”

“I’m sure they do but we don’t.”

“We’ll find him. How about we find his school?”

“If he’s older that Olivia he won’t be at school. God, he could be anyone.”

“The cabbie from the drive home?” John suggested with a smile and earned a laugh from Sherlock’s side of the room.

“Possibly, though that has already been done once.” Sherlock stood up and crossed the room to share the couch with John. “Can we get takeaway tonight?”

“We had takeaway last night.” John reminded Sherlock gently, “Though I suppose if you’re willing to eat properly…”

“I was just going steal your noodles actually…” Sherlock teased.

“And what happens if I’d rather have pizza?”

“You’ll give me the olives.”

“Are you just intent on stealing my food Sherlock?”

“What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours.” Sherlock replied wisely, John simply rolled his eyes.

“Of course, which is why you can steal my laptop but I can’t have yours.”

“Yes but I don’t have a blog you like to hack which is something I can do from your laptop. I like correcting your grammar and spelling.”

“More like you like to make sure I’m praising you as much as possible and not mentioning things like your lack of knowledge on the solar system.”

“It’s unimportant.”

“I bet you weren’t thinking that when you were staring at that fake painting.”

“Shut up John.”

“So, pizza?”

“Screw you.”

“Alright.” John retorted with a smirk, Sherlock elbowed him in the side.

“Aren’t you funny today?”

“Oh come on you set yourself up for that.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

Needless to say their bickering went on for the majority of the evening.


	5. Chapter 5

** Chapter Five **

[Message Sent: 12:02]  
How’s the case going?-JW

[Message Received: 12:05]  
Still nothing. I don’t _want_ to wait until he slips up.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:06]  
If you think about it he already has.-JW

[Message Received: 12:09]  
How so?-SH

[Message Sent: 12:11]   
He made it clear this wasn’t a onetime thing.-JW

[Message Received: 12:13]  
I suppose that’s something. Considering hacking Lestrade’s Facebook.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:14]  
He’ll kill you.-JW

[Message Received: 12:16]  
It’s for a case.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:18]  
Worth a try I suppose.-JW

[Message Received: 13:01]  
Nothing.-SH

John sighed; Sherlock was going to be a pain by the time he got home. At the very least there’d be new bullet holes in the wall and the furniture would be reorganised (“But John the feng shui helps me think better this way”) and at the very most… well, that wasn’t something he really wanted to think about. The last time Sherlock couldn’t solve a case he’d trashed the living room, bulk bought thirty packets of jammy dodgers from Costco (admittedly John was impressed Sherlock knew what a Costco was), attempted baking, drunk four shots of espresso, shot the wall and left the house to bother Molly at the lab. For a second John pitied her, but then again, she didn’t have to live with the consulting five year old and put up with his tantrums daily. Of course, she didn’t love him either but that was beside the point.

[Message Received: 13:10]  
I’m coming to the surgery.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:11]  
Don’t you dare.-JW

[Message Received: 13:13]  
But I’m _bored_. So so bored. Bored beyond belief. The amount of bored I feel is heavy enough to crush diamonds, end wars and blow up the moon.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:15]  
Tough cheese ‘Lock. If you come to the surgery and cause trouble Sarah will kill me.-JW

[Message Received: 13:16]  
But I’m missing my other half.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:20]  
*Better half.-JW

[Message Received: 13:23]  
So you like to think.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:28]  
So I know, for a genius with an abnormally large I.Q. you’re making a lot of mistakes today.-JW

[Message Received: 13:30]  
Say good bye to the jumper draw.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:32]  
Do it and die.-JW

[Message Received: 13:34]  
Calm down pumpkin I’m kidding.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:38]  
Pumpkin?!-JW

[Message Received: 13:42]  
Yes dear heart. I called you pumpkin.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:46]  
Sherlock I thought we agreed that pet names were weird and we weren’t going to do them.-JW

[Message Received: 13:50]  
BORED.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:55]  
Go piss off Lestrade or something.-JW   
[Message Sent: 13:56]   
In fact, ask your brother how his diet is going!-JW

[Message Received: 14:00]  
That’s just immature John.-SH

[Message Sent: 14:03]  
You do it all the time when he comes over.-JW

[Message Received: 14:07]  
He’s my brother.-SH

[Message Sent: 14:15]  
He kidnaps me.-JW

[Message Received: 14:18]  
Touché.-SH   
[Message Received: 14:19]   
There’s been another murder.-SH

Maybe the flat would survive another day, John could only hope. Of course, knowing Sherlock, he would’ve trashed it/ blown it up/ burnt it down half an hour after getting out of bed. At the very least a kitchen appliance would be broken. John simply prayed it wasn’t the fridge. Body parts in the fridge was one thing, body parts at room temperature was another.

[Message Sent: 14:23]  
If the flat is a tip when I get home I will not be a happy John. Also, have fun on your case. Spare the details until **_after_** I’ve eaten.-JW

[Message Received: 14:56]  
Oh John it’s brilliant, he’s made it look like she hung herself but he clearly strangled her before. Although he’s hand cuffed her hands together for some reason. He’s done it after she died though, else she’d have cut herself while struggling to get away. And she’s been left in this disused chemical factory.  It’s Christmas John I swear!-SH

[Message Sent: 14:59]  
I’m glad someone’s having fun. How does it help with the case?-JW

[Message Received: 15:04]  
It doesn’t yet but it will, she’s bound to know the killer so it’ll be easy to find him.-SH

[Message Sent: 15:08]  
Well I’m glad someone is happy. I’ve got a ton of kids all needing their booster shots done. I’ve already been bitten twice.

[Message Received: 15:15]  
You chose to become a GP, you could’ve been my assistant but no.-SH

[Message Sent: 15:18]  
You’re supposed to keep your work life and your private life separate.-JW

[Message Received: 15:22]  
Which is, of course why you dated Sarah.-SH

[Message Sent: 15:26]  
Piss off.-JW

[Message Received: 15:29]  
Love you really John.-SH

[Message Sent: 15:34]  
I’m all too aware of that. Now excuse me I have to subject myself to the tortures of giving yet another small child the chance to kick me in the balls.-JW

John turned his phone off and stepped out his office to call the next patient in watching as a small boy in a transformers t-shirt looked up from his violent game of smashing Lego brick structures up and trotted across the room towards his office. Perfect. Just perfect. Another small child who would not hesitate to bite his arm/ kick him where he really did not need to be kicked/ somehow do more damage his scarred shoulder. Either that or the child would pull on his shirt and reveal to his mother the giant love bite Sherlock had jokingly left on his shoulder a few nights ago (“No one will see it John, but I’ll know it’s there, you should be thankful I’m not leaving one on your earlobe!”) and receive a disapproving look from the woman. Either way this was yet another appointment he was not looking forward too.

Fifteen minutes and a screaming fit from the small child later John emerged triumphant from his office with yet another small bite mark from the dangerously sharp teeth of a small boy temporarily visible on his arm. For some reason traipsing around after Sherlock in some dirty, cold, abandoned warehouse as he made snide comments at Anderson and Donovan about their “budding love affair,” and making obscure deductions he appeared to just pluck out of thin air seemed pleasant for a second. Clearly prolonged exposure to small children (and possibly Sherlock) had sent John crazy. He sighed, looked at his watch and hoped that the final hour or so of work would pass quickly.

It didn’t.


	6. Chapter 6

** Chapter Six **

Sherlock had spent the past half an hour in his mind palace.  The woman was in her forties. She was called Cara Lewis. She was a photographer- there was a spare memory card in her jacket pocket. The killer had known her schedule or he had tailed her. Therefore the killer must’ve known her. She was expecting to be alone. There was a mobile in her pocket. The mobile had no texts from anyone under the name Will. If Will was the killer they weren’t close. Too many ifs and buts. Sherlock stopped thinking for a second and opened his eyes, it wasn’t this dark when he’d shut them. He considered getting up to put on a light, but John would be home soon (with takeaway if Sherlock was lucky) and getting up would mean his thought process was completely over and- Oh! _Oh!_   Why hadn’t Sherlock thought about it before? Neighbours! That was a hopeful possibility. Of course!

Sherlock rose from the couch and went in search of biscuits in the kitchen. He successfully found the spot where John had attempted to hide the biscuit tin from him and took three jammy dodgers to munch on as he watched crap telly. He considered making tea but he could never make it the way John did it so he ignored the kettle (stupid new thing, it wasn’t as nice as the old one. He’d wired the old one to make cat noises when it finished boiling) he made his way back to the sofa, remembering to smile at… what was the skulls name this week? Ah yes Herbert. Remembering to smile and offer _Herbert_ a biscuit. Not that it ever accepted a biscuit, Sherlock was fairly sure it was ignoring him this week anyway, probably because he’d shot a bullet into the wall above the mantel piece a little too close to the top of the skull’s, well, skull.

He checked his watch for maybe the sixtieth time that day as he waited for John to come home. Things were never as nice on the John’s work days. Partly because John got up and made the bed cold and partly because there was no one to show off in front of. And of course because John was nice. Cuddly. Warm. He wore those (that on anyone else would be considered ridiculous) jumpers. He put up with the mess. And for some unknown reason he actually loved Sherlock back. That was something. Something new, and nice. And something Mycroft didn’t have which was always going to be a positive addition to the entire arrangement.

“Sherlock I’m home. God, have you been sat here with the lights off for the past hour? It’s a wonder you haven’t turned nocturnal. It’s freezing outside; can you put the fire on? Actually, on second thoughts, I’ll put the fire on. You blew up the kettle last week and that’s not something I’m about to risk with the whole house. For a start Mrs Hudson would kill us.” John entered the flat and hung up his coat before turning the light on (because of course, Sherlock was completely incapable when it came to doing normal things at home) and leaning down over the couch to give his partner a kiss, “I thought I hid the biscuit tin?”

“Oh John, it works in the same way as your laptop password. I will always work out the answer in the end.” Sherlock grinned, “Welcome home by the way. Shall I order takeaway?”

“Nice try Sherlock, Mrs Hudson made us lasagne, I’m heating that up and we’re having that. I’m impressed though, you wanting to eat two days in a row, especially on a case.”

“There’s not much happening right now though.”

“It’ll pick up.”

“It better.”

“It always does, don’t worry Sherlock, you’ll have your moment to humiliate Anderson once more.”

“The killer is probably this second victim’s neighbour.” Sherlock mentioned offhandedly.

“Sounds like we’ve got our Saturday planned out then.”

“Are you doing that lasagne?”

“Yes, want to give me a hand?”

“Really, you’re still asking that?” Sherlock chuckled to himself, quickly followed by the sounds of John’s laughter next door. John rolled his eyes as he dug the lasagne out the fridge, avoiding the tub of what he knew was not Ben and Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream and actually a tub of thumbs, whether or not they were cookie dough flavoured was not a question he was going to ask, took the tinfoil of and shoved it in the oven. Oh how he loved not actually cooking. Everything was so much easier than cooking for himself and Sherlock and trying to distinguish between proper flavours and not burnt, salty, sugary and ketchup after years in the army when they were the only four flavours of food you got. And if Mrs Hudson was not their landlady she definitely made a very good second mother when it came to them both (or ‘her boys’ as she liked to refer to them) although they’d made it clear that she was more than welcome to become their personal chef if she felt like it (she didn’t).

Half an hour later John flops onto the couch, a steaming plate of lasagne in his hand. He smirks to himself as Sherlock watches him take a large mouthful of gooey cheesy pasta and chew slowly before swallowing. He goes to take another mouthful when Sherlock ends the silence in the room.

“Where’s mine.”

“Where do you think Sherlock?”

“On that plate with yours?”

“Wrong.” John sings out, “Try again.”

“In the kitchen?”

“Correct.”

“Why’s it in the kitchen? I’m hungry.”

“Why do you think?”

“Because you’re mean?” John laughed at Sherlock’s comment the consulting three year old had returned.

“Because you didn’t come help me.”

“I never help you.”

“Hence why your food is next door.” John replied with a smile. Sherlock huffed and stomped off to the kitchen to get his food.

“I hate you!” Sherlock yelled from the other room.

“Oh course you do.” John called back, “It’s okay Sherlock, I love you too.”

“I didn’t say I loved you!”

“That’s fine, I know you do really.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yeah right.” John laughed.

“Boys are you alright? I heard raised voices; you aren’t having a domestic are you?” Mrs Hudson poked her head round the flat door, a look of worry on her face.

“No, no we’re fine Mrs Hudson, the very pinnacle of domestic bliss. Sherlock was just telling me how much he loves me, weren’t you sweetie?” John yelled, a huge grin crossing his face.

“No I wasn’t!” Sherlock hollered from the other room.

“Yes you were!” John called back.

“Boys, you’re going to irritate the whole street.” Mrs Hudson sighed, “And I thought Mrs Turner’s married ones were bad.”

“That’s because Mrs Turner’s married ones are not as happily married as she’d like them to be.” Sherlock interjected.

“Yes thank you Sherlock, we’d rather you didn’t ruin another marriage this month.” John called back, “Honestly Mrs Hudson I promise we’re fine. Sherlock’s just being his usual self but it’s okay I love him anyway.”

“Fine John. I love you too.” Sherlock offered grudgingly as he re-entered the living room with his plate of food.

“Oh Sherlock, I’m so proud of you. You managed to serve yourself dinner without being a lazy arse.” John teased.

“Don’t make me take what I just said back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” John laughed putting down his plate and crossing the room to kiss Sherlock’s cheek, “As you can see Mrs Hudson, the very pinnacle of domestic bliss I promise.” Sherlock laughed and wrapped an arm around John’s shoulder making them look like a family portrait from the Victorian era; the effect however was slightly ruined by the grins across the faces of both men as they tried to convince their land lady (and house keeper, which was true, no matter how many times she denied it).

Like John said, the very pinnacle of domestic bliss.


	7. Chapter 7

** Chapter Seven **

John was cold. Let’s rephrase that. John was freezing. That was the thing about abandoned factories, they didn’t do heating. It was the middle of November, it was cold! Why hadn’t he considered the fact that he’d be standing in arctic conditions for the best part of two hours when he pulled on just a coat this morning. Two hours. Sherlock had better buy him a warm drink on the way home for this. On the plus side, due to the cold the body didn’t smell like it would’ve done in summer (and even years of work with Sherlock would not get him used to that smell) and Anderson and Donovan were making less snide comments than usual because they wanted to get home as soon as possible. John had originally thought that they were going to investigate the neighbour today but no, Sherlock wanted to find more clues. Or more specifically, why the victim’s hands were chained together and why she’d been left in the factory, because, while the victim’s shoes were covered in dirt and mud matching the samples outside the factory, they were not covered in the brick dust outside.

Sherlock scanned the body again. He was missing something. He hated knowing that he was missing something. He just wasn’t sure what yet. Obviously the killer knew these people. That was one thing linking them together, but then, why wasn’t the killers mum dead? Or His father? The new victim was older than Olivia too. So age wasn’t a factor. They were both female. Was gender something to be taken into consideration? And then, there were the places they’d been left, both completely different, but, for some reason Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to believe that, that wasn’t important. Finally there were the ways they’d been killed. Both used suffocation as a means to kill, but there was a big difference between the two. The first death had been a warm up; the killer only had to be there long enough to push the victim off the boat with the weight tied to her ankle. The second death required the killer to feel what he was doing. The pulse rate slowing. The panicked and shallow breaths becoming more and more panicked until they stop. Until everything stops. Sherlock gave a slight shudder, and then the handcuffs. They’d be symbolic, like the flowers. But what for? Handcuffs could mean any number of things, the most obvious crime and punishment, war, BDSM? Sherlock had no clue about the flowers either. There was the language of flowers, spring, and the female reproductive system. All perfectly viable yet almost as irrelevant as the last idea. He was missing something!

“Sherlock, you’ve been pacing in silence, take a break.” John’s soothing voice cut into Sherlock’s thoughts and stopped them racing, “Got anything new?”

“Nothing at all.” Sherlock muttered.

“It’s fine. Stop stressing, we should do something tonight. I think your brother mentioned having spare tickets for an amateur production of Macbeth which we could steal from him if you’d like? Or-“

“Say that again.”

“Say what again.”

“The play what was it.”

“Macbeth.”

“That’s thingy.”

“What do you mean ‘that’s thingy’?”

“Marlowe!”

“Shakespeare Sherlock. Not Marlowe, he did Doctor Faustus.”

“Oh him, he’s not nearly as interesting.” Sherlock shooed John away. “Oh that’s genius.”

“What is?”

“Ophelia!” Sherlock shouted, dashing off in search of a taxi.

“And there he goes.” John rolled his eyes and turned to Lestrade, “I should run after him. See you later.”

“Don’t forget to tell him the first victim’s name was Olivia.” Lestrade called after John.

“I won’t!” He laughed, “See you later.”


	8. Chapter 8

** Chapter Eight **

The two men sat in silence, Sherlock deep in thought and John simply watching the world fly by the windows of the cab. John considered opening his mouth to speak, although, he was fairly sure Sherlock would yell at him if he did that and so avoided opening his mouth. He attempted to entertain himself through some other means. He drummed his fingers up his legs, readjusted his coat and counted yellow cars until the silence really started getting to him.

“Sherlock why were you going off about Ophelia? The victim’s name is Olivia.”

“No John, he’s mimicking Shakespeare deaths. The first one is Ophelia from Hamlet. He wanted it to look like a suicide, it also explains the flowers. In the final part of her madness she hands out the flowers to the king, queen and her brother, hence why they were tangled in her hair. It’s also why she had to drown, Ophelia falls in the lake. This one is a little more complicated and I can’t remember which play it’s from which is why we’re going home and I’m borrowing your laptop.”

“No. Use your own.”

“Yours is nicer.”

“I don’t care; I’m getting fed up with you hacking my laptop.”

“It wouldn’t be hacking if you just told me your new password each time.”

“I’m not telling you this one.”

“Oh? Why’s that, is it embarrassing?” Sherlock teased, John sat in silence trying not to blush. “It is isn’t it? Let’s see… sherl0ck is sexy? I want Sherlock’s sherc0ck? Sherl0ck H0lmes get in my red pants? Oh I know, it’s I love Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock laughed, John didn’t reply and blushed a vivid shade of red. “Oh my god it is isn’t it! John you teenage girl you!”

Sherlock began chuckling uncontrollably, his face also turning a vivid shade of red, but not for the same reasons. In between body shaking laughs Sherlock gasped out several sentences that sounded like they involved the words “Adorable” and “Cute”. John stretched over and hit Sherlock fairly gently a few times in a feeble attempt to get him to shut up.

“Is this going on the blog?” Sherlock asked, a gleeful expression on his face, “Can we please involve this fact when we write up the case?”

“When I write up the case. And no we can not!” John muttered, growing redder by the second.

“I write up cases too!” Sherlock argued.”

“No Sherlock, you sit in the background reminding me not to forget to mention how ‘spectacularly ignorant’ you are,”

“I help, besides, you frequently insult me, and I’m only reminding you not to forget.”

“Firstly, no. You don’t.  Secondly, I called you spectacularly ignorant once. Once. And that was because you had no basic knowledge of the solar system!”

“It was irrelevant!”

“It wasn’t and you know it Sherlock. Also, how on earth did you come to the decision that Marlowe was more interesting that Shakespeare?”

“The death John, Marlowe’s death. It’s ambiguous, so many possibilities. Was he murdered, was he accidentally stabbed in a pub brawl or was it assassination? No one knows John! There is the constant possibility that he may have been murdered or assassinated.”

“Of course, he’s interesting in the sense of a cold case. For a moment I almost believed you admired his work from a literary point of view. How ridiculous of me.”

“In the sense of a murder case, Shakespeare also becomes interesting. We have to consider the possibility that Shakespeare was Marlowe’s murderer, despite how unlikely it is. If we were to consider his motive there is the possibility that Shakespeare murdered Marlowe. For instance, Shakespeare was greatly influenced by Marlowe and became the next large play write after Marlowe’s death. Was he simply removing the competition, was he jealous of Marlowe’s talents, or was he in fact completely innocent? It’s most likely he’s innocent due to Marlowe’s religious beliefs, or lack of them, however there is always a possibility. We will never know!”

“There’s no need to make it sound so dramatic Sherlock.”

“Ah but you have to admit it’s a half decent case John.”

“Only a ‘half decent’ case? From the way you were raving on about it I was going to put it at, at least a ten. Unfortunately though, it’s a cold case, and unlikely to be one that you will never solve.”

“You doubt my abilities John.”

“Maybe.” John smirked, flicking a look at Sherlock. “What are we doing when we get home?”

“Trying to find this Shakespeare play. If anything it will at least help us work out the killer’s motives, although, it’s unlikely we’ll be able to predict his future movements it will at least help up a little bit.”

“Any idea on where we’re starting?”

“No clue.”

“So you don’t have every Shakespeare play memorised in your head?”

“John, I thought we established, I’m not a fan of Shakespeare in a literary sense, maybe as a murderer, but other than that not at all.”

“Well those handcuffs are likely to represent something, maybe crime and punishment?”

“Brilliant John.”

“And if that doesn’t work we should always look into the history of the abandoned factory. That may also be symbolic of something.”

“Also brilliant.” Sherlock complimented, John shot him a grin.

“I do have my moments you know.”


	9. Chapter 9

** Chapter Nine **

Pages turned. Thousands of tabs were opened on internet browsers. Google searches were made. The infrequent sound of a key board clacking. The occasional groan from either Sherlock or John as yet another hopeful lead got away from them yet again. The one subject beyond Sherlock’s reach. Well, that and the solar system. They’d been at work for almost an hour and still nothing. Most of the time Sherlock would at least find a half decent lead in the first five minutes of investigating and then continue to search it through the night. But today, nothing. On this case, barely anything. Sherlock was disheartened. It was rare that such a thing would happen, but it wasn’t completely unheard off. John failed to keep up with occasional shout of character names or even seemingly random words coming from Sherlock’s side of the room.

“Have you looked up the factory yet?” John asked, giving up on yet another useless website.

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE A CLUE THAT’S WHY!” Sherlock yelled across the room, throwing his book down (where he’d suddenly gotten a copy of Hamlet John had no idea) and pacing angrily back and forth across the living room, his heavy footsteps making a barely satisfying thud.

“I’ll see if I can find it then.” John said under his breath, “Do you know what the factory made? I’ll do some searching.”

“Chemicals.” Sherlock huffed, folding his arms and turning to face the wall on the couch. Sulking.

John did a couple of quick searches (well, as quick as you can get when you type slowly) and managed to come across a website called derelict London. He clicked on the link and found the page for disused chemical factories, finally coming across the right one.

“There’s not much you can say about it except that it went into disrepair after the Second World War.” John said, unsure as to whether or no Sherlock was actually speaking. There was silence for a moment.

“Oh. OH. _Oh!”_ You could almost hear the italics in Sherlock’s voice, “Oh that’s good. War crime John. War crimes. Google that!”

“There’s quite a few.  Oh there’s one I did at school, king… King something or other.”

“Lear John, Lear.”

“What?”

“King Lear John.”

“Yes that’s it. His daughter, Cordelia was hung in her cell after Lear lost the battle against Cornwall. The factory’s history is obviously representative of the lost in battle, after all, it closed just after World War Two. The hand cuffs show imprisonment and she was strangled and then hung because the killer knew it would be quicker. Maybe he was strapped for time of maybe he just didn’t want to have to fight with her in order to get her into the noose. Erm… Am I missing anything Sherlock? Normally you would have stopped me by now.” John trailed off, Sherlock was looking at him with an intense amount of pride on his face.

“Actually John, those points are all perfectly viable. Tomorrow we interrogate the neighbours I promise.”

“Do we really want to question people on a Sunday?”

“At least we’ll be fairly sure that they’ll be in.”

“Fair point Sherlock.” John replied, yawning. “Jesus I’m tired. I think I’m just going to go to bed. Are you coming?”

“Maybe in a little bit.” Sherlock replied flashing John a quick smile, “I’m not really tired yet. You know how cases get.”

John nodded and headed upstairs to get ready for bed, he stripped of his clothes and slid into bed, not bothering with pyjamas or a shower, he was too tired. He lay down in bed, making sure to take Sherlock’s pillow instead of his own so that he could smell his partner as he drifted off to sleep. Somewhere downstairs Sherlock had picked up his violin and had begun playing a slow, sweet tune, with long legato bowing and a soothing melody. John quickly identified this as what Sherlock called ‘John’s Lullaby.” It was frequently played after and during John’s nightmares in an attempt to soothe him. Though, now a days, as John’s nightmares became less frequent the violin piece was more regularly heard when Sherlock was trying to be romantic on John’s birthday and at Christmas. Of course, the piece also appeared on the occasional evening (such as now) when John was just tired. It was Sherlock’s way wishing John goodnight when his mind was otherwise occupied. John also frequently requested that Sherlock played it for him in those rare quiet moments secretly loving the fact that Sherlock had written a piece especially for him.

Sherlock played a little louder, making sure that the notes carried from the thin metal strings on his violin up the stairs and danced towards John’s ears. His hands brushed familiar well-worn wood, feeling he familiar grooves of consistent practice and playing, the spots where the varnish had worn away slightly or where hands and finger tips touched onto smooth wood, eroded gently over the years.  The bow dragged carefully across the strings, occasionally slowing as he held the lower notes, the slight vibrato filling the air as the notes varied minutely, not even semi-tones apart. His long pale finger tips played an effortless and flowing game of twister across the strings touching for seconds on all of them, occasionally lingering for longer on a one over the other as a snippet of a scale was played. The way Sherlock played almost made the instrument seem alive and Sherlock’s old teacher had often likened the instrument’s bow to that of a beating heart, (Sherlock’s mother had insisted on employing an experience violin enthusiast as Sherlock’s teacher, insistent that if Sherlock was to learn how to play, he’d learn to play like a lover of the instrument). In the same way that a human heart keeps the body going and is often associated with controlling emotion the bow keeps the music alive and moving (and while it is possible to use pizzicato to keep the music going, it never flowed quite as well as slurred bowing) but it also controlled the emotion of the piece, ranging from quick upbeat happy notes to long slow tragic ones.

Once Sherlock was certain John was asleep he switched from tune to tune for a few hours, making sure to play the gentle, more serene ones in order to avoid waking John. The music slowed and intoxicated his mind, drowning out the loud rushing thoughts that were all too eager to keep him up at night, tossing and turning, trying to escape the constant babble of possibilities in a murder case or a the many qualities of keeping bees or how to cook pasta, open a champagne bottle correctly, ride a bike, swim, fish, the list could continue for hours. The violin cleared that. Once Sherlock was completely certain his mind had slowed enough he followed in John’s now cold footsteps, up the stairs and towards the bedroom, ready to sink into the mattress under warm covers.


	10. Chapter 10

** Chapter Ten **

The road of semi-detached houses spread in front of them. There were at least one hundred houses on each side. Odd numbers on the left and even numbers on the right. The taxi slowed and drifted past the houses before stopping outside number seven. The murder victim’s house. John and Sherlock stood outside for a moment wondering which house’s door to knock on first.

“Five or nine Sherlock. Which one looks more suspicious?” John asked with a slight grin.

“Oh definitely five, can’t you see how dangerous that potted plant in the window looks John and that hanging basket on the porch is clearly filled with lead weights designed to fall and kill anyone thick enough to stand under them.” Sherlock laughed, “Come along John.”

Sherlock set off towards the door, striding up in his usual confident striding, John following after, struggling slightly to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides, an almost comical image. Of course two minutes after being in a face of with these two men criminals suddenly found it less funny (unless your name starts with M and ends in Oriarty). Sherlock gave three sharp knocks with the brass door knocker and waited (fairly) patiently for the door to be answered. The door swung open slightly (but stopped before it could swing too far, probably on a chain on the other side) and a small girl poked her head out and peered up at the two unfamiliar men on her doorstep.

“Are your Mummy and Daddy home sweetie?” John asked, going into responsible doctor mode, crouching down to the girl’s level and tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Yes, Mummy’s making a cake. I will go an’ get her.” The girl replied after giving both men a look not dissimilar to Sherlock’s when he sat and deduced people’s lived. She vanished for a second and reappeared, this time, the door opened fully to reveal a slightly irritated woman wearing an apron.

“Look, this is a neighbourhood watch zone and a no cold caller zone, we’re not buying it. We could have to arrested you know-“She began to rant, Sherlock cut her off.

“Actually Madam. We’re here from New Scotland Yard. Three days ago your neighbour was murdered in an isolated area of London. You are under suspicion of murder. We’d like to come in a have a chat with you.”

“Murder?!” The woman cried incredulously, “I can’t believe it. I have a daughter, what kind of animal do you take me for?!”

“An unhappily married one for a start. You don’t normally cook, that apron is almost completely new. You think baking will fix your marriage but let’s face it, you suspect your husband is gay and having an affair with his personal trainer. You’re right of course, it’s always the personal trainer, you’re reluctant to leave him though… _Oh of course_! You don’t want to explain to your daughter here, who isn’t your husband’s child. You don’t want to seem like a massive hypocrite, let’s see… Oh _yes,_ your aroma therapist. You called the affair off when you got pregnant though, you were worried the girl would be ginger and didn’t want to have to think of a way to explain to your husband about the unusual hair colour. He still has feelings for you, those flowers on the table were obviously not from your husband, it’s been a while since he’s bought you anything of the sort. I’d think about ending it with your husband and getting back together with the aroma therapist-“

“I think Sherlock we’ll finish there.” John cut him, deciding that the woman’s face was red enough, both with rage and embarrassment. Her daughter stood in awe of the lanky, dark haired man on her doorstep, looking up at him with her mouth dropped completely open.

Sherlock crouched to the girl’s level, “Close your mouth sweetie, a bug might fly in.” The girl obediently shut her mouth but didn’t take her eyes of Sherlock. “Now, may we come in?”

The woman, stood dumbstruck, nodded slowly and turned to lead Sherlock and John through to the dining room. She sat down on one side of the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable with the whole ordeal.

“Now,” Sherlock began a large false smile on his face, “What is your husband’s name?”

“My husband’s name? Why would you need his name? I thought I was the one in trouble?”

“Oh, no. But we had to shut you up somehow. Now, your husband’s name.”

“Richard.”

“What can you tell us about the people or person at number nine?”

“Not much, we moved here from recently. It’s closer to the school.”

“And further away from your husband’s gym. I see.”

“Sherlock…” John warned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but carried on with the questioning. “But can you tell us anything?”

“Family of three. Suspicious parent, they built both of their garden fences overly high so that no one can see in. I can show you…”

“In a second, tell us more.”

“They have a son too. He occasionally attends school I think, the local sixth form, failed his A-Levels the first couple of times round apparently. Couldn’t be bothered to focus, think someone said something about a weed addiction. Very good with technology I think. We were warned by the past owners of this house to make sure we had a very secure lock on our Wi-Fi or he’d stream porn using it.”

John shot Sherlock a look _‘found anything yet?’_ he tried to ask without speaking aloud, Sherlock gave a very small shake of the head.

“Anything else at all?”

“Oh he argued constantly with the woman next door. You know Cara. He always complained that she was filming into his window and she always complained the fence was too high, they couldn’t see eye to eye about anything. I’m fairly sure that if Cara had said the grass was green, he’d have turned around and said no the grass was orange and she should stop being an effing moron.”

“That’s marginally useful. Thank you for not being entirely think.” Sherlock replied, standing and brushing the wrinkles out of his trousers, “We’ll be off. Don’t worry, we’ll show ourselves out.” Sherlock was quick to exit, but it took John slightly longer. The woman stopped him before he managed to leave the dining room, Sherlock already beginning to stand on the street.

“You know, if I’m getting divorced I’ll be free.” She attempted to flirt.

“Actually I’m taken.” John glanced down the hallway to where Sherlock was standing with his back to them on the street.

“That’s okay sweetie, your wife doesn’t have to know.” She leaned towards him, about to kiss him.

“Actually my partner will. You saw how quickly he deduced you. He’s known me a while, he’d know straight away. So will you _please_ let me go?”

The woman stepped back a horrified expression on her face. “What is up with all you… Fags. You guys don’t know what you’re missing, you’ve clearly never had half decent sex with a woman.” The rant continued as John slipped under her arms, darting out the front door and slamming it behind him. Joining Sherlock on the street and entwining their fingers together.

“Sorry, but that woman just couldn’t get enough of me. She could probably sense that my nickname was John Three Continents Watson.” John gave a slight laugh.

“Oh, I wondered what that was about.” Sherlock replied. “Ready to try number eight?”

“Yes. Let’s go”

They walked all of ten minutes down the street before making their way up to the front door of number nine. It was drastically different to number five, there was little light shining through the windows, no potted plants on shelves. Beside the door an old pumpkin had been carved saying ‘FUCK OFF’ probably left there from Halloween. Sherlock stepped up to the door and knocked several times with his fist because the door knocker was broken, it looked almost as though it had been hit several times with a sledgehammer whilst someone was in a rage.

There was no answer.

Sherlock hammered again.

Still no answer.

“Are we breaking in?” John asked quietly.

“Yes, I believe we are.” Sherlock replied, pulling a couple of lock picking tools out of his pocket.

“You know, I’m not going to even bother asking why you bought those with you.” John rolled his eyes, as ever, Sherlock was prepared. It was a shock that he hadn’t been a boy scout at some point in his life.

“Shush John. Working.”

“Alright, alright. Keep your curly hair on.” John settled into silence listening out for the odd click of the lock as Sherlock twisted the tools in the lock. “That was the final click wasn’t it?”

“I believe it was.” Sherlock gave the door a gentle push and it swung open to a beautiful silence. “Someone needs to install a burglar alarm.” He commented striding into the hall and crinkling his nose, “And they need to sort out the mould in their house hold it stinks and probably tidy up.”

John had stopped listening to Sherlock’s comments and headed up stairs to find the boys room. “Are you going to stand there and whine or are you coming too?”

“Yes coming John.” Sherlock called coming up the stairs after John. “Oh that’s promising.” He beamed as they stood on the landing, looking directly at the door in front of them that had, in large cursive ‘William’s Room” painted on it. “I think we might have found our serial killer.

They pushed the door open and were greeted with complete tidiness. Books stacked high on a shelf. Everything immaculately dusted and a little too pristine. A laptop sat on a desk with no other personal items surrounding it. Each wall was painted bright white. Not cream or even a slightly tinted white. Just white. Completely blank. Not even a small stain on the wall. It was unnerving. The books on the shelves were in pristine condition, not a single crease in the spine and on the inside it was likely that not a single page had been dog eared. The bed lay opposite the door made perfectly, sheets unstained, made perfectly with one corner folded down almost to a perfect right angle as if it had been measured with a protractor. In comparison to the rest of the house the room was cooler and like a sanctuary for a sufferer of OCD. This was not the room of a teenage boy who streamed porn using his neighbour’s internet connection and argued constantly with the woman on the other side of the fence.

“Search the room.” Sherlock’s voice echoed about, his voice bouncing off the plain bare walls. John began searching the book case, scanning over the books that were mainly dictionaries (why would you need more than one dictionary?) and encyclopaedias. Most appeared unopened and untouched but there was one book that could be used as evidence. A fairly thick book called “Shakespeare’s Plots.” John slipped the book off the shelf and began thumbing through the pages.

Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the room examining the computer. The desktop was messy. Word documents everywhere, supposedly for easier access but how they navigated the maze of blue and white was a mystery. Three possible web browsers. Explorer, Chrome and Firefox. Sherlock opened Firefox. Most likely the one most used as it was not pre-installed on the computer. Menu- History- Show all history. It was filled with thousands of pages relating to Shakespeare. Recent Google searches: Tragedies, deaths, characters, plot. Amazon account-Recently purchased: Sand Bags. That was clever. How the hell Will had gotten the bags on the boat Sherlock would never know but it was very clever.

A key clicked in the lock, both men froze.

“Sherlock, we need to get out. Did you see a back door?” John hissed across the room.

“Nope. We could jump out the wind-“

“No. No way. You can forget it.”

“John it wouldn’t be too hard on your leg.”

“It’s not the leg I’m talking about Sherlock.” John snapped, Sherlock understood, breathing in sharply and nodding mutely.

“We could hold out until they turn on the television or something?”

“Sherlock there’s no way that’s going to work.” John replied, there was silence for a moment before many voices started up downstairs.

“They’ve turned the television on. Do you want to risk it?” Sherlock asked. John groaned.

“Fine.”

Sherlock gave John a hopeful grin and headed towards the door and pulled it open thankful that it didn’t squeak. They slunk down the stairs and stood in front of the door, waiting for the volume of the television to rise so that they could open it without making a noticeable amount of noise. The volume rose to the right amount and they opened to door and sprinted down the road, laughing to themselves.

“That wasn’t Will was it?” John wheezed as he tried to get his breath back.

“No, I think he’d have gone straight to his room. I don’t think interviewing his parents will do much good either. He seems like he spends all his time in his room, I don’t think we’ll be able to get much information out of them. Although if we’re going to catch him it looks like we’re going to have a hard time. ‘Occasionally attends the local sixth form’ he’s got an irregular schedule, whether that was a conscious decision or not we won’t know however we have no clue to tell us about his next murder but he is almost definitely our guy.”

“Great so now we have to catch him. With no other information. It could take weeks Sherlock. What if he’s not even at home and he’s done a runner? He could be playing an elaborate game of hide and seek.”

“It’s likely. But we’ll get him. He doesn’t know yet who’s on his case. He could be hiding from anyone. For the moment we’ll be able to track him down without suspecting us entirely.”

“Good. Hailing a cab?”

“Hailing a cab.”

“Good you can pay.” John grinned as he sprinted on ahead of Sherlock to get to the main road.


	11. Chapter 11

** Chapter Eleven **

[Message Received: 17:36]  
The press wants involvement.-GL

[Message Sent: 17:38]  
Tell them no.-SH

[Message Received: 17:40]  
It’ll look like we’re covering something up. I’m sorry Sherlock but we’re going to have to tell them.-GL

[Message Sent: 17:43]  
It’s a terrible idea. We know who the killer is. He’s likely getting ready to play a huge game of hide and seek. We cannot risk letting him know we’re onto him and we’re coming for him.-SH

[Message Received: 17:45]  
We don’t have a choice.-GL  
Try and avoid paparazzi when you go out. Or tell them about your sex life or something if you have to deter them (which we’d prefer)-GL

[Message Sent: 17:47]  
Ha. Ha. Sex life. That’s not happening. If the public needed to hear about that then John would put it on his blog.-SH

[Message Received: 17:50]  
Fine, bad joke. Seriously though, we’re telling them. The bare minimum obviously but there’s nothing else we can do.-GL

Sherlock threw his phone across the room.

Thankfully John had bought him a rubber case for it for Christmas so it bounced comically off the wall. However that just fuelled Sherlock’s anger and he huffed and stormed over to pick up his violin and beginning to scrub angrily at the strings with the bow playing discordant noises and generally making a racket.

“Sherlock! Sherlock shut up!” John yelled entering the living room, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Lestrade is telling the press.”

“Ah. Not good. But you can’t have a tantrum about it.”

“But he’s ruining my plans!”

“I am aware of that!”

“John we could’ve caught him!”

“Yes I know.”

“John he’s going to-“

“Yes I know. Giant game of hide and seek etcetera etcetera!”

Sherlock put away his violin and slammed the violin case shut.

“John, sort it out.” He whined, looking a little like a lost puppy that had been kicked.

“Sherlock, there’s nothing I can do.”

Sherlock pouted and pulled a face, “Tea?”

“Yes I’ll make you a mug. No more strops okay?”


	12. Chapter 12

** Chapter Twelve **

It was early morning. Very early morning. As in ‘Way before John needed to be awake on a Monday morning’ kind of early. Why was he awake? Because the press were flocked outside his flat making a ton of noise. Why were the press outside his flat? Because they all wanted to hear from Sherlock Holmes, the genius in charge of the Shakespeare case as it was now being called. One member of the press had been so hungry for an interview and photos that he’d tried to climb up the fire escape. John had been the one who had had to try and send him away. The joys of being in a relationship with a celebrity. Well Harry had called Sherlock a celebrity. Not John. No, as far as John was concerned Sherlock was a grumpy, irritating, sarcastic and occasionally loving man-child who John had accidentally fallen in love with. Of course, he wasn’t completely mad, Sherlock had some redeeming qualities. Some being the key word. He played stunning violin music, made John laugh, was happy to sit inside and cuddle (when he didn’t have a case) and generally an alright person once you got past the ‘insults the majority of the people he meets’ part.

“Are you ‘sleep ‘Lock?”

“Go ‘way.” Sherlock grunted into his pillow, determined not to get up or wake up properly.

“Can’t sleep, the bloody press won’t go away.”

“Don’ care.”

“I don’t have work for another two hours. Do they really think we’ll be getting up at seven?”

“If we were investigating a case they might.”

“Technically we sort of are.”

“Yes but there’s nothing else to investigate.”

“They don’t know that.”

“They’re idiots.”

“Go outside and insult them.”

“John that’s irrational.”

“So? So is being outside our flat at seven in the morning. This is not what I need. I don’t sleep enough as it is!”

Sherlock rolled over onto his front and buried his face in his pillow. “When you’ve stopped complaining wake me up.”

John muttered to himself and rolled over to try and sleep again. He was fairly sure the speaking outside the flat got louder but he tried to block it out. Five minutes later he was seriously considering going downstairs and borrowing Mrs Hudson’s ear plugs. Ten minutes later he was considering firing his gun into the wall a few times to scare them off. Fifteen minutes later he was ready to pour all of the acid Sherlock owned into a large pan, boil it and tip it over the idiots standing below. In the end he decided to just stay in bed. Quietly making a list of all the things he’d do to the reporters if they continued to piss him off. A couple of things on that list were: Send them to Mycroft for a ‘tea party’, get Sherlock to plot elaborate murders that the yard would never work out, resurrect Moriarty, get them all to seriously annoy him and have Moriarty skin them/make them into shoes/burn the heart out of them, get Mrs Hudson to yell at them (seriously, when she was annoyed that woman had a set of lungs on her), have them all deal with Sherlock while he was in a strop, squash them with something heavy, shot at them (NOT shoot them), allow Sherlock to slip things in their coffee for ‘experiments’, give them the kind of coffee/tea Sherlock attempts to make, place them in the same room as Mycroft and tell them they have to make him laugh or they will never leave, ship them to Afghanistan and leave them in the same room as Anderson for a couple of hours or so and watch them all struggle with their morality as they tried not to injure him due to his stupidity (okay, Sherlock had ‘helped’ with that one).

The alarm finally went; John hadn’t been able to sleep even after designing a list of tortures for the press and his plotting had gone completely overboard. He grunted, got up and made tea in fairly dark conditions not wanting to open the curtains and risk having photos of him in his red pants in the newspapers. He cringed, just beginning to imagine the headlines. He put his bread in the toaster and hurried off to get dressed. He returned a minute later to freshly made toast. He fished it out of the toaster (making sure not to knock it off the counter top) and spread the top evenly with strawberry jam (when Sherlock made breakfast for him he always did half evenly before getting bored and coating the rest thickly the way John abhorred it but the way Sherlock loved it). He munched quickly on his toast, preparing himself for the rush of the press as he left the flat.

“Doctor Watson! What can you tell us about your new case?” A reporter shouted from somewhere in the crowd on his doorstep.

“Sherlock has a head in the fridge.” John replied, completely deadpan. The press descended into a rabble, John left them to come to assume whatever (possibly obscure things) they pleased. Lestrade and Sherlock could tidy up his mess later.

John battled through the throng of people before strolling off down the road, almost looking forward to a busy day of screaming children and grouchy old ladies.

Around lunchtime he received the inevitable texts from Sherlock.

[Message Received: 01:03]  
Bored. – SH  
Bored. - SH   
Bored. - SH   
Bored. - SH   
Bored. - SH   
Bored. - SH   
Bored. - SH   
Bored. - SH

[Message Sent: 01:07]  
I’d never have guessed. Tidy your experiments up; they’re clogging up the kitchen table.-JW

[Message Received: 01:08]  
No. They’re important.-SH

[Message Sent: 01:10]  
And that would be the very moment I doubted you.-JW

[Message Received: 01:13]  
BORED!-SH

[Message Sent: 01:16]  
Go deal with the press or something.-JW

[Message Received: 01:17]  
No.-SH

[Message Sent: 01:19]  
You might as well. There’s nothing better for you. I promise you can insult them-JW

[Message Received: 01:19]  
There’s no point, they’re all imbeciles. They wouldn’t have a clue they were being insulted.-SH

[Message Sent: 01:22]  
Of course.-JW  
Also, I told them you have a head in the fridge.-JW

[Message Received: 01:24]  
I do have a head in the fridge.-SH

[Message Sent: 01:29]  
I’m fairly sure they think it’s the serial killer’s. Or at the very least a victim’s.-JW

[Message Received: 01:31]  
Ah… Not good?-SH

[Message Sent: 01:34]  
Bit not good yes.-JW

[Message Received: 01:36]  
Should I go out and sort it?-SH

[Message Sent: 01:38]  
Possibly. If you feel like it. Depends what headlines you want in the news tomorrow.-JW

[Message Received: 01:41]  
Would it be funny if I just left it?-SH

[Message Sent: 01:47]  
Just a little bit.-JW  
Okay, I’m lying, it would be hilarious.-JW  
And it could help the case. The killer would think you’ve beheaded the wrong person. Whether or not they’ll continue killing is a completely different matter.-JW

[Message Received: 01:56]  
Oh he’ll carry on alright. This is a way of getting people’s attention. He wouldn’t got to so much effort if he wasn’t going to get recognition.-SH

[Message Sent: 01:58]  
Still takes the focus off us.-JW

[Message Received: 01:59]  
That can only ever be a good thing.-SH  
The game is _on_.-SH

[Message Sent: 02:05]  
Yes alright Mr Overly Dramatic.-JW

**X                                                                                              X                                                                             X**

As usual John returned home in the evening. What was unusual however was that it was 6:40 and John was soaked. He looked like a drowned rat. Why? Because all the cabs had been full and John had had to walk home. Which, admittedly, was not too much of a hardship. Well, until the heavens opened and he got soaked. That part he minded. Of course, it was the one day he hadn’t bothered with his coat thinking that his jumper was thick enough to keep him warm. Which it was, until it got wet and the material became cold and heavy.

John stood dripping onto the living room carpet while his partner laughed his head off, giving no sympathy to the poor bedraggled man stood hopelessly in front of him.

“A hug?!” Sherlock roared with laughter, “You’re soaked! Why didn’t you get a cab?”

“Because there weren’t any assbutt.” John replied, “ and may I just quote ‘You’re soaked’ wow, your powers of deduction catch everything don’t they?”

“Alright, alright grumpy, I’ll offer a little sympathy. I’ll run you a bath?” Sherlock offered, rising from the couch.

“Oh yes please.” John enthused, following Sherlock to the bathroom. He waited until Sherlock bent over the tub to run the water before sneaking up behind him and hugging him tightly.

“JOHN! John.” Sherlock whined, “You’re making me wet and cold.”

“Tough Sherlock.”

Sherlock grumbled and continued filling up the bath. John sat back and watched as tendrils of steam began to rise from the tub and spiral up into the air, twisting and curling before cooling to room temperature and fading away. Soon enough the windows and the bathroom mirror were covered in a fine mist that had descended over the room.

John sat quietly, carefully drawing a masterpiece across the steamed up mirror with his finger (alright, it was only stars but it could’ve been a realistic night’s sky had John tried) when Sherlock finally shut the taps off and motioned that John could get in, saying that John could just lie in peace and Sherlock promised not to blow anything up, make a mess or annoy him in any way shape or form. John was quick to agree before peeling off his clothes and sliding into the warm water, giving a gentle sigh as the water engulfed first his knees, then his waist and then just below his armpits. Sherlock must’ve added some kind of nice smelling oil when John wasn’t looking as the whole thing smelt completely divine.

John relaxed a little more. His freezing cold toes warming slightly as he wiggled them under the water, admiring the little ripples that gently moved over the water’s surface. John wriggled his toes again, this time slightly more violently and the water made a soothing lapping side against the edges of the bath. Slowly John let his mind go blank and forget the pace of the day, each fussy baby he was asked to weigh and measure (the damn things didn’t like him much, they always cried when he picked them up), the elderly women who wanted to gossip about Stacy at the corner shop who was having a baby and she wasn’t married to the father (John didn’t know, nor did he care about Stacey from the corner shop and the teenage girls who were terrified that they were going through menopause when really they were just pregnant (thankfully though, only two of those decided to arrive today). Soon all the noises in the house lulled to nothing. If John had been paying attention he may have worried slightly about the lack of noise, after all, Sherlock never kept quiet unless he was sulking. After a while the gentle sounds of John’s lullaby floated up the stairs before fading again as Sherlock bought John a mug of tea upstairs, knocking politely on the bathroom door before entering. John smiled in thanks and took a sip of the tea, pleasantly surprised by the fact that Sherlock had gotten it spot on. Obviously he’d cheated slightly and gotten Mrs Hudson to help him, but overall John decided that it was the thought that counted.

“Have you got anything in your pockets?” John asked, seemingly out of the blue.

“No why?” Sherlock looked completely baffled.

John reached his arms out, as though asking for a hug, which Sherlock willingly gave before finding himself fully clothed and soaking, sat with John in the tub.

“What was that for?!” Sherlock asked, a mix of annoyance and laughter in his voice.

“Revenge, dearest Sherlock, is sweet!” John declared, half cackling to himself, “That’s what you get for laughing at me when I come home from work tired and wet.”

Sherlock slithered out of the bath and sped off to the bedroom to get into dryer clothes. John laughed to himself before getting out of the bath and towelling himself off. He made his way through to the bedroom and was surprised to find that Sherlock was no longer there. He shrugged to himself, put on his pyjamas and settled down for a nice quiet night in and picked up his book. He grinned for a second as he found Sherlock had slipped a hold water bottle between the sheets to help keep John’s feet warm and warm the bed. In the space next to John’s pillow there was a small present labelled John. John picked it up and turned it in his hands admiring how neatly it had been wrapped in its gold wrapping paper. Very carefully he peeled away the cello tape at one end so that he could slide the gift out. He found himself presented with a little plastic case holding a pair of foam earplugs. John laughed at the sentiment Sherlock had shown, pleased that his partner had noticed his irritation at being woken up so early in the morning. He picked up his book and began to read quietly. After a while Sherlock slunk back up the stairs to join him, wrapping an arm around John’s shoulders.

“Did you like my present?” He murmured, just before John started a new chapter.

“I did, it was very thoughtful, and I’ll be giving them a test drive tonight. That doesn’t mean, however, that you can stay up half the night making as much noise as possible okay?”

“John, I wouldn’t dare.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“Yeah I’ll believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.”

Sherlock promptly leant over and hit John round the head with his pillow. A mass pillow fight began ending only when Sherlock knocked a glass of water off the bedside table with a slightly over excited swing resulting in lots of swearing as the two men hurried to try and tidy up the mess.


	13. Chapter 13

** Chapter Thirteen **

It had been almost three weeks since the last murder. Sherlock had solved other simple ones, he was bored and therefore decided to take on the slightly easier cases, actually bothering to leave the house for cases instead of solving them via Skype, which wasn’t always the most ideal method. However, three weeks later, John found himself awake at an unearthly hour again despite his fantastic ear plugs which John had taken to using frequently.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. It was two in the morning. Sherlock groaned and untangled himself from John’s grasp (yes, the doctor was very much a cuddler) and stretched over to grab his phone scanning the text from Lestrade.

[Message Received: 02:02]  
Been a third murder, Julius Caesar, will you come?-GL

Sherlock crinkled his nose, dreading the thought of persuading John to come too.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, nudging his partner in the back in an attempt to wake him. John simply rolled over and wound his arms around Sherlock again, this time burying his face in Sherlock’s chest.

“John, get up.” Sherlock whispered again, this time a little louder, there was still no response. Sherlock pulled a foam ear plug out of John’s ear and spoke again, this time receiving a response.

“Wha’?” John mumbled, yawning slightly.

“Lestrade’s found a body.”

“Good for him.”

“He wants us to come and look.”

“’S early ‘Lock.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“But my hot water bottle is leaving.”

“Nice to see you only love me because I’m warm.”

“Don’t go.”

“John, it’s sort of important.”

“It can wait ‘til morning.”

“Not if I want to see the body in the actual location it can’t.”

“You don’t want to see the body in the actual location.”

“Yes I do.”

“No stay in bed with me, the work doesn’t have to know.”

“John, the wife is calling.”

“But the partner loves you more.”

“Come with me then.”

“It’s early.”

“You said.”

“It’s cold.”

“You can have my coat.”

“I’ll look ridiculous.”

“You can have my coat while I’m still in it.”

“You’ll whine that you can’t look at things properly.”

“We won’t go for long.”

“You always say that.”

“No I don’t.”

“I’m going back to sleep.” John retorted.

Needless to say, John found himself at the crime scene less than forty five minutes later.


	14. Chapter 14

** Chapter Fourteen **

Blood trickled down the steps of the museum, still slightly warm and oozing out of the 23 stab wounds on the man’s chest. The murder must’ve only happened a couple of hours ago. The victim had been strangled with the red cape which now lay limp, still half twisted around the his neck. The stab wounds had been added later in order to recreated the death without any struggle. All in all this death was fairly similar to the last apart from the words, smeared in bright red blood, “Et tu Brute?” across the bottom step.

“He’s playing games now. He’s actually gotten cocky. He must’ve known we visited his house-“

“You visited his house.” Lestrade cut in on Sherlock’s rant.

“We were working to find him.”

“You didn’t tell us.”

“Was it really necessary?”

“Yes. What do you know?”

“Not much, the guy’s name is Will. His link to the first victim was that he was in love with her but she had a boyfriend, the second victim was his neighbour, they argued about the height of the back garden fence. It sounds obscure but I’m fairly sure this murderer has OCD his room was almost… Clinical? It was unnerving. He’s worked hard at creating an appearance; his neighbour said outright that the past owners of their house had said to make sure they had a decent lock on their Wi-Fi else Will would hack it to download porn. He attends his local sixth form infrequently, making it hard for us to track him because he doesn’t have a regular schedule; however we are unsure as to whether or not he has done this consciously or not. There’s the possibility that he’ll be playing a huge game of hide and seek across London. That’s all we know.”

Lestrade had hurriedly scribbled the list down as Sherlock spoke before telling Sargent Donovan to get a group of officers together in the morning to go and try the house again. John turned to Sherlock and gave an exaggerated yawn before wrapping his arms round his partner’s waist and mumbling that he was tired.

“Can we leave?” Sherlock called across to Lestrade.

“There’s nothing you can deduce?”

“Not really, although going by the story of Julius Caesar he will’ve been a person in power around Will. He was killed here because of the exhibit on the roman era.”

“Best you go. Thanks for coming out so early in the morning.”

“We probably won’t be around tomorrow.” Sherlock guided John towards home and a nice warm bed, ignoring the ‘Thank god’ muttered by a certain Sally Donovan.

Once they were home, John pretty much fell into bed fully clothed leaving Sherlock to dress him in his pyjamas and tuck him into bed. John always cared for Sherlock (when he was ill, when he was tired, when he refused to care for himself, when he didn’t need to be cared for) and it felt nice being able to look after John in the same way, especially as John look so vulnerable lying in bed completely lacking energy. Sherlock felt oddly protective and climbed into bed with John, not sleeping but simply curling his body around John and tracing little patterns on a patch of skin on John’s him where his pyjama top had ridden up slightly (or where Sherlock hadn’t pulled it down enough, he wasn’t sure which). John let out a couple of little snuffling sounds which Sherlock found stupidly cute (which was not a word he ever thought he apply to John Watson) and in his head decided that John was a little bit like a hedgehog with his blonde hair which stuck up slightly when he hadn’t slept. He’d curled up a little into a foetal position similar to a hedgehog and for a second Sherlock even considered likening Sherlock nose to a hedgehog’s. Before Sherlock knew it he’d filled yet another room in his mind palace with bits about John, this one was (rather ludicrously) filled with reasons why John was like a hedgehog. Sherlock considered deleting it for a second but decided that it was far too cute (there was that word again) to forget. He pondered for a second, wondering if he should report his findings to John but couldn’t make a decision. The pros to the situation were that it would probably make John laugh and irritate him slightly; giving Sherlock something he could use over and over again to irritate John slightly. The cons to the situation were that John probably wouldn’t understand that actually that was a compliment and Sherlock was calling him cute (though John probably wouldn’t approve of that, after all Jawn- John was a soldier he had killed people).

Of course, it also occurred to Sherlock in that moment that he’d just tried to call John Jawn. He wasn’t sure how that had come about. Maybe he was tired. However there was something (how large that something was Sherlock didn’t know) oddly appealing about the name. Perhaps it was how the vowel sounds stretched out and made an aw sound, much like a teenage girl would when admiring a kitten or some other small baby creature who was supposedly cute (unlike John, baby animals were not cute in Sherlock’s eyes, they still scratched and smelt did they not?) or maybe it just sounded so completely ridiculous that you just had to like it. Sherlock decided that he’d have to conduct many (likely embarrassing experiments) to work it out. Jawn Hamish. Oh god, that sounded even worse, yet better at the same time. Maybe double-barrelling the name made it better; Jawn Hamish Watson didn’t sound as good though. Jawn Hamish Holmes, Sherlock liked the alliteration in the final two words but it was unlikely John would ever change his last name, it had been discussed and John hadn’t really gone for the idea so Sherlock had decided not to press it. Maybe if John heard how cute (!) his name sounded like that he’d agree to it, although, that was still highly unlikely. In the end the constant evaluation of John/ Jawn’s name lulled Sherlock back into sleep despite the constant activity of Sherlock’s brain.

In a way that made sense, after all, John was the only thing that could quiet the constant thought’s, the echoing repetition of facts and figures. Case details filled the gaps, removing needed silences. Sherlock could try for hours to block it out so he could get to sleep; it appeared though, that in the end all he really need was to overload his hard drive with notes on John until it exhausted itself and finally allowed Sherlock to drop off into the comforting blackness of sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

** Chapter Fifteen **

Sherlock sat and watched John get dressed, still deciding whether or not he should speak about his thoughts from the night before. In the end he decided to mention the hedgehog theory. Yes, Sherlock had named it.

“John, it occurred to me last night that you are similar to a hedgehog.”

“Right. Why Sherlock?”

“Because you were snuffling like one last night and your hair sticks up when you get tired.”

“Of course, so not due to my size then?”

“No, well now that you point it out it seems relevant, but it didn’t occupy my thoughts last night.”

“Okay. Is that a compliment?”

“Yes. I like hedgehogs, almost as much as I like bees.” Sherlock replied earnestly.

“Then you Sherlock, are like an otter.”

“What?”

“An otter Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Because otters have really long bodies and you’re just generally really long.”

“Right. Is that it?”

“No. They also do that thing you do when you have your hands pressed together under your chin; they do it as they float on their backs down rivers.”

“Otters aren’t as cute as hedgehogs.”

“You’re calling me cute?”

“Yes Jawn.”

“What? Sherlock, are you high?”

“No, but you are cute, especially when you snuffle and Jawn sounds oddly appealing.”

“I’m not cute, I'm a soldier, I’m dangerous. And don’t call me Jawn.”

“But the way the a sound stretches out John its-“

“Sherlock, I love you, but I’m fairly sure you’ve lost the plot.” John laughed, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips, “I’ve got to go to work.” He gave a little yawn and dashed out to bedroom, “God, I’m so tired. I blame you.” He called up from the bottom of the stairs.


	16. Chapter 16

** Chapter Sixteen **

John had fallen asleep on his desk. He’d been asleep for about fifteen minutes. He’d accidentally closed his eyes after one patient and had forgotten how to open them again. Sarah had noticed, each time she came out of her room there was the same number of patients sat waiting. She furrowed her brow and knocked on John’s door before entering. Rolling her eyes as she noticed him asleep on his desk.

“John get up.” She said, shaking him relatively gently. There was no response, “John I don’t care how much fun you and Sherlock were having last night. You need to get up and sort out my patients.”

John mumbled and sat up. “What?”

“You fell asleep on your desk. Get up. You’ve got patients, have a moment to sort yourself out. Do not go back to sleep and then help me clear the waiting room.”

John rubbed at the corners of his eyes and nodded, still at little confused, “I’m so sorry, there was a case at two this morning and Sherlock dragged me out of bed. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll let you off this once.”

“Thanks Sarah.” John offered her a smile as she left before fixing his sleep ruffled hair and heading out to call in his next patient, cringing slightly in embarrassment. He sorted out a toddler with an ear infection before sending a quick text to Sherlock.

[Message Sent: 11:22]  
Just fell asleep at my desk. I blame you.-JW

[Message Received: 11:24]  
You didn’t have to come.-SH

[Message Sent: 11:29]  
Yes I did, my hot water bottle was leaving.-JW

[Message Received: 11:31]  
Is that all I am to you?-SH

[Message Sent: 11:36]  
And an otter.-JW

[Message Received: 11:37]  
Nothing else?-SH

[Message Sent: 11:45]  
Well I love you as well, but that goes without saying.-JW

[Message Received: 11:47]  
There was the reply I wanted.-SH  
Sorry for making you tired.-SH  
Are you in trouble?-SH

[Message Sent: 11:56]  
No, Sarah let me off. According to the old lady I was treating I keep smiling when my phone buzzes.-JW

[Message Received: 11:58]  
That’s good. I aim to make you smile.-SH

[Message Sent: 11:59]  
Oops, was that sentiment?-JW

[Message Received: 12:03]  
Piss off.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:12]  
I’m nowhere near you.-JW  
Do you want me to move out?-JW

[Message Received: 12:13]  
NO!-SH

[Message Sent: 12:18]  
That was a joke Sherlock, keep your hair on.-JW

[Message Received: 12:20]  
John, it’s attached to my head, how could I possibly lose it?-SH

[Message Sent: 12:27]  
It’s a figure of speech. However your hair will probably fall out as you get older.-JW

[Message Received: 12:30]  
I’d like to not think about that. You know Mycroft’s hair already has started falling out?-SH

[Message Sent: 12:32]  
Yes I do why?-JW

[Message Received: 12:34]  
Because he’s sensitive about it and I like laughing at him.-SH  
His diets a pretty good laugh too. And he love of cake. And if you mention a certain grey haired, Detective Inspector then he goes bright red and looks like a tomato.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:40]  
Greg? Really? That’s brilliant. Can we please make your brother look like a tomato? How do they know each other?-JW

[Message Received: 12:42]  
Mycroft kidnapped him. Like he does with all of my friends. He need to get his own, but no one likes him.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:50]  
It is obscene how much I laughed at that. Does Greg know?-JW

[Message Received: 12:52]  
Completely oblivious. He’s only met Mycroft a few times, but Mycroft is a bit of a creepy stalker and so he just keeps a ton of unnecessary tabs on him.-SH

[Message Sent: 12:58]  
Does he do that with me/ us?-JW

[Message Received: 13:01]  
You know about the cameras in the flat right?-SH

[Message Sent: 13:09]  
What about them?-JW

[Message Received: 13:11]  
He had them removed, dismantled and burnt when we started dating. Apparently he saw far too much of me than he wanted too.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:18]  
I’m not sure you realise how pale I’ve gone at that thought. Mycroft knows we? Oh god. I’m never going to be able to look at him in the same light again.-JW

[Message Received: 13:21]  
Actually, he was very complimentary of your physique.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:28]  
I didn’t think it was possible to go much paler, I think I’m going to be ill.-JW

[Message Received: 13:30]  
At least you’re at a doctor’s surgery.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:35]  
Hilarious. I’m thoroughly terrified by your brother, I hope you’re happy.-JW

[Message Received: 13:37]  
I think it’s funny actually.-SH  
But I can see how you’d disagree.-SH

[Message Sent: 13:43]  
God help me. I’m going to go okay? Unless you want to mentally scar me a little bit more?-JW

[Message Received: 13:45]  
Nope, I’m done.-SH

About three hours later John began making his way home. As he walked along the street he was suddenly very aware of every CCTV camera, fairly sure that the majority of them were trained directly on him. Each tourist he saw with a camera was one of Mycroft’s minions out trying to take photos of him. He shook his head, told himself not to be paranoid and scurried home as quickly as he could.


	17. Chapter 17

** Chapter Seventeen **

There were another four weeks of silence. John and Sherlock celebrated Christmas, a quiet affair, a couple of gifts exchanged, simple inexpensive things that most partners wouldn’t have looked twice at. John saw his sister. Sherlock and Harry argued before Harry drank a lot of mulled wine got very drunk and threw up on Sherlock’s shoes. Afterwards they settled back into their routine, changing it only slightly when New Year’s came around, they stayed up till midnight watching the fireworks, shared a bottle of champagne and gave each other a bashful kiss as the New Year began. The day later, Sherlock was in case mode.

“Sherlock, I’m home!” John called up the stairs before making his way up to the living room as quickly as possible.

“Hi! I’m tracking Will’s phone, he’s got one of those smartphones like in our first case, the cab driver one.”

“You know everyone else calls it the study in pink case.”

“That’s because they pay attention to your blog John.”

John rolled his eyes, “How’d you hack the account?”

“I got Mycroft to do some legwork, he needs it, it’ll help with the diet, and he dug some stuff up for me.”

John blushed furiously.

“Oh touchy subject sorry.” Sherlock said offhandedly. John scowled.

“Where is he now?”

“Well he’s been through Truro, Hereford, Ely, Ripon, Exeter, he stayed two nights there, the others only one, then: Newport, Edinburgh, Ventnor, that’s a town, back to Ely and also back to Ripon, where he stayed two nights again, then: Wolverhampton, Aberdeen and Southampton, where he stayed two nights and also Aberdeen where he stayed two nights, then he went back to Truro, then to Armagh, Leeds, and back to Exeter where he stayed two nights, then Oxford and Flitwick, which is another town, and he stayed two nights, then Manchester, Oxford, Ripon and Edinburgh, where he stayed two nights and finally Winchester, Oxford and Ely where he’s stayed one night and it looks like he’s spending a second. I’m fairly sure he’s gone mad.”

“Or he knows he’s going to be put in prison soon and is trying to see every inch of the United Kingdom?” John suggested, “Though, that doesn’t explain why he’s visiting some places three times. Try plotting his route on a map.” He bought up the AA route finder and typed in the first four locations and was presented with a massive squiggle. “I don’t think that’s my answer.”

“No neither do I, I think we should probably let Lestrade know, here, I’ll e-mail him.” Sherlock said, sending Lestrade a list of the places and the squiggle on the map, “That’ll really confuse him, still it doesn’t look like we’ll have many murders though, he’s started the game of hide and seek though and we’re miles behind, I’m not sure we’re going to be able to get ahead of him John. There’s no pattern to it.”

“That’s what we said about the murders, that there was nothing linking them, but you found something in the end.”

“Maybe this is Shakespeare related?”

“Perhaps Sherlock, though, I think you’ll have to do some research to work it out but it’s definitely an idea to start with. Do you want a hand?”

“No, it’s fine, you relax, you’ve been at work.”

“Okay.” John made himself a cup of tea and sat down to read his book. Sherlock began typing furiously at the key board, googling the history of each town in depth, the clatter of keys so constant  and loud that for a moment John was almost certain Sherlock was simply key smashing at the key board out of frustration.

“NOTHING!” Sherlock roared two hours later, apparently, John observed, Sherlock had found nothing (although in his current state, pointing that out to Sherlock probably wouldn’t go down well). Sherlock smashed heavily down on the keys in frustration (John was surprised the keys had actually lasted the two hours of furious typing, at least this time Sherlock had actually used his own laptop and not John’s).

“Sherlock are you going to want to eat tonight?” John asked, thinking it was best to divert attention from the topic of Sherlock’s anger.

“No. Can you take a lot of time off work?”

“Possibly, why?”

“We’re going to be doing a lot of traveling.”

“What?”

“The places John! We need to visit each of them. He’s probably leaving a trail!”

“You think it’s going to be that easy?”

“He’s getting cocky. Oh I love it when they get cocky!” Sherlock exclaimed, springing up from his chair and pacing rapidly, a spring in his step. “Can you take about two months off?”

“Uh...”

“No actually don’t worry; I’ll get Mycroft to sort it.”

“Um okay. When do we leave?” John was more than a little bit thrown by the whole conversation.

“Tomorrow. Start packing!” Sherlock exclaimed gleefully, half skipping out the room and proceeding to pack as many suits as he could into his suitcase.


	18. Chapter 18

** Chapter Eighteen **

It was early. Really early. Why did this keep happening to John?! Constantly he found he found himself yawning and standing bleary eyed while Sherlock got over excited flouncing around solving his crimes looking overly attractive in his long coat and cheek bones with his outstanding deductions. This morning in particular he found himself stood on an empty train platform while Sherlock attempted to buy train tickets. It was an attempt because Sherlock didn’t understand why he had to change trains (he’d spent too much time using cabs to get around London) and was arguing with the woman at the kiosk about how useless the train system was.

John began to pity the woman and made his way over to sort it out. He ignored the glares from Sherlock as he sorted it out with no problem whatsoever and strode past Sherlock, waving the tickets tauntingly in front of his face. And stood to wait on the train platform.

“We should probably see about getting a ticket that we can use all month or something, we’re going to be doing a lot of travelling. And it would save train station employees all over the country.” John said as they stood waiting on the chilly platform.

“Shut up John, you’re not allowed to be better than me at things.”

“Stop pouting Sherlock. And I’m better than you at many things.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I wear jumpers better, cook better, I don’t make abysmal tea, nor do I trash the flat when I get bored.”

“Shut up John.”

“Love you Sherlock.”

“Humph.”

“That didn’t sound like ‘I love you too John’”

“I love you too.” Sherlock muttered, glaring at John again.

John laughed and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Come on grouch, we’ve sort of got a lead, though I don’t know why we can’t just go to where ever his phone says he is.”

“He’s moving too quickly, we’d never catch up, especially as we don’t know his patterns. I can’t figure it out, there’s no numerical code to it, and the whole thing seems completely random. There’s nothing we can do in order to track him. We’ve just go to look for some suggestion that he’s not just moving randomly.”

“It’s not going to be easy, he’s staying mostly in cities he could be staying anywhere.”

“But he hasn’t been, Mycroft found his bank card transactions. Mostly he’s been staying in travel lodges.”

“Idiot. You’d think he’d pay with cash.”

“He’s playing games though.”

“True. It’s not fair.”

As the train pulled up John began hastily dragging his case up to the train when Sherlock stopped him.

“Now, now John. I should take that; you can focus on minding the gap. After all small items are easier to lose down there.”

“Hilarious Sherlock, but I won’t object to you carrying my case for me.” John laughed and walked past Sherlock and down the carriage, finding a place to sit and completely flopped onto the seat, leaving Sherlock to do all of the hard work on his own. Still, he did it to John so often that he pretty much deserved it; John could write a book about all the times Sherlock had abandoned him at crime scenes. Sherlock frequently argued he had and it was called his blog, at which point John would often bounce a well-aimed pillow at Sherlock’s head.

“Thanks for your help.” Sherlock grumbled placing both cases on the shelf overhead.

“Well like you said, small things fall down the gaps easily and as a hobbit you would not want to lose such a rare creature down the gap.”

“A what?”

“A hobbit Sherlock.”

“Oh was that in that odd book? I read it when I was eleven, didn’t think much of it, I liked the dragon though.”

“Let’s see, because it set things on fire?”

“Exactly John, you know me well.”

“That Sherlock, is because I am the genius in this relationship.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, I knew how to get the tickets from the ticket kiosk.”

“Shut up John.”

There was silence. The silence continued for another five minutes.

“John, you can stop now.”

No reply.

“John you can stop now.”

John mimed a little zipping motion across his lips.

“John.” Sherlock whined. John smiled. “John speak to me

“Fine.” John replied, a slight smirk on his face, “Did you miss my lovely voice?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pouted.

“No need to look like that Sherlock.”

“I hate it when you’re right.”

“That’s a shame, I rather enjoy it.”

“I’m sure you do.

“Piss off.”

“Okay.” John grinned and headed off down the carriage in search of the food car. Of course, Sherlock didn’t know that.

Two minutes later he received a message.

[Message Received: 09:34]  
John where are you?-SH  
John?-SH  
John I can’t find you.-SH  
John.-SH  
John.-SH  
John.-SH  
John.-SH  
John.-SH  
John.-SH  
Come back.-SH  
John.-SH  
John.-SH

[Message Sent: 09:45]  
Getting tea, I’ll be back in a minute. Sit down.-JW

[Message Received: 09:47]  
Coffee. Black. Two sugars.-SH

John purposefully poured milk in it and forgot the sugar.

 **X**                                                                                                      **X**                                                                        **X**

“What is this?” Sherlock asked, turning his nose up at the coffee.

“Coffee, no sugar, two mini carton things of milk. Why?”  John asked offhandedly.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“You know how I like my coffee.”

“Yes, no sugar, lots of milk.”

“You also know that’s not how I like my coffee.”

“Really?”

“Yes and you know it.”

“Do I? I have a tendency to forget when you don’t say please.”

Sherlock stared in discontent at his coffee. He looked similar to a lost puppy that had just been kicked.

“John…”

“Yes Sherlock.”

“Can I have some of your tea?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“But-“

“No.”

Sherlock continued to stare at his coffee; finally he decided to chance tasting it deciding that if it made him feel ill then John would feel guilty and it would all be worth it.

No. This couldn’t be happening. He was _enjoying_ it. This wasn’t going to spite John. Dammit. He’d gotten the upper hand again. For someone so short he always seemed to be on higher ground than Sherlock. Maybe it was an army thing. Always have the tactical advantage.

“How are you enjoying your coffee Sherlock?”

“It’s good.” Sherlock muttered.

“Pardon?”

“It’s good.” Sherlock grumbled, a little louder this time.

“Once more please.”

“I said it’s good!” Sherlock yelled. John laughed and held up his phone Sherlock’s tinny voice ringing out through the speakers, ‘It’s good!’ it repeated, John burst into further details and set it as his text alert. Sherlock glared at him.

The rest of the Journey seemed to pass without many issues. Sherlock insulted the ticket inspector about the uselessness of the ticket kiosk staff and complained for roughly fifteen minutes when John bought him back a cereal bar instead of something chocolaty (“But John, I don’t want this healthy rubbish I want a chocolate brownie like you.”) John purposefully bought something that Sherlock would find desirable back with him and ate it painstakingly slowly in front of him while making the most ludicrous noises; Sherlock hit him in the head with the packet from his cereal bar.


	19. Chapter 19

** Chapter Nineteen. **

Soon enough they arrived in Truro. Sherlock sourced the nearest travel lodge and booked them a room there before spending several hours hacking the hotel data base in order to find out which room Will had been staying in. He then insisted on breaking into said hotel room (apparently you can pick a hotel room lock with a coat hanger and a credit card, John didn’t want to know where Sherlock had learnt that trick) and accidentally walking in on a couple having very loud sex. He (sort of) covered it up well by saying he was room service and pinching a bottle of champagne of an actual room service cart and told them it was on the house.

“Sherlock, that was too close.” John said in hushed tones outside the door.

“We need them out of there. They’re a honeymoon couple; they’re never going to leave!” Sherlock replied, more bothered by the lack of access than the fact that he’d just waltzed in on two people having sex.

“Well they definitely won’t be leaving for a bit. You just gave them champagne idiot.”

Sherlock ignored John and began pacing down the length of the corridor, what he was looking for John didn’t know.

Sherlock stopped in front of a little red box.

“No.” John said flatly, “You cannot set the fire alarm off.”

A scarily devious look crossed Sherlock’s face. “Can’t I?” He asked swinging his fist at the glass and breaking it, suddenly a loud ringing noise filled John’s ears and he appeared to be soaking wet. “Come along John, we don’t have much time.” He called above the noise and sprinted off down the hallway, breaking into the room and searching it quickly. Under the mattress, in the safe, in the draws, mini fridge (he took a bar of toblerone for luck), lodged in the ceiling fan. All nothing.

The wailing stopped, footsteps and voices made their way down the hall. Sherlock swore under his breath and sauntered out the room giving John the instruction to just go with it.

“OI! You two! You should be outside!”

“Us officers? But it’s a false alarm.” Sherlock said innocently.

“What? How would you know?”

“Because we saw a man run that way after setting the alarm off, he simply sauntered up to it. He wouldn’t have done that if there was any real trouble.”

The security guards looked unconvinced but allowed the two men to return to their ‘room’ and Sherlock continued to search. He yelled out in frustration as yet again he found nothing of any use in the room and stormed out in fury back to their hotel room.

Sherlock’s mood, however, was only made worse when he found the state their room was in. In setting off the fire alarm he had accidentally soaked all of their stuff when the sprinklers had gone off. He flopped down onto the bed, completely losing hope, forgetting that the bed was going to be wet and found himself suddenly engulfed by damp sheets.

“John. Everything is terrible. Why did we set off that fire alarm?”

“Sherlock, you set off the fire alarm.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes Sherlock, you did.”

“John, the beds wet.”

“I know.”

“John, I am an idiot.”

“Yes you are.”

“John, I want tea.”

“I can’t make you tea here.”

“John, my hairs all wet.”

John left the hotel room in search of a Costa Coffee.


	20. Chapter 20

** Chapter Twenty **

Sherlock found John about two hours later (admittedly, he’d only bothered to look for him twenty minutes prior to finding him) John was sat with several Styrofoam cups scattered on the table in front of him as he updated his blog. Sherlock pulled up a separate chair and sat opposite John.

“Should’ve known I’d find you in here.” He smiled, pushing the top of John’s laptop down slightly so that Sherlock could see John’s face.

“You were being a whiny git.”

“Correct, and I still haven’t found anything so I thought I’d come and see what you were up to.”

“Not much, just checking the blog. Mrs Hudson sent us a good luck message which I thought was nice of her, but that’s about all there is. It feels like the whole of London has fallen quiet while we solve this one case. I almost think this guy is trying to be the Ripper of the twenty first century.”

“Interesting case that one.”

“I bet you solved it.”

“Actually no, it’s a hard one. I’m not sure we’ll ever solve it. If someone invents time travel, like on Doctor Who, I’ll be first to go back and have a go.”

“If we had time machines your job wouldn’t be needed, I was impressed by the reference though.”

“I’m not completely inept when it comes to pop-culture John.”

“I know, I know. But you only watch Doctor Who because I force you to.”

“Actually, I rather like Doctor Who.”

“Really?”

“Yes, some of the episodes are well written. Steven Moffat is a good writer. The other one too… Mark Gatiss, they should work on something else together.”

“That’s quite a good idea.” John nodded, “They could also do a Jack the Ripper episode. That could be interesting.”

“I wouldn’t complain.” Sherlock grinned, “I’m going to grab a coffee, the way I like it, no milk two sugars.” He said, shooting John a look, “Want anything? Baring in mind I’ll actually get it for you.”

“No, can’t think of anything, thanks for the offer.” John smiled warmly, opening his blog back up and quickly typing up the sudden revelation that Sherlock like doctor who.

“What’re you posting?”

“The brand new news that you like Doctor Who. People like to know you’re human.”

“I am human.”

“Sometimes people forget when you run around looking gorgeous and deducing people. You forget too sometimes. When did you eat last?”

“Really John?”

“Yes. Last meal?”

“That cereal bar thing that you got me on the train.”

“Go up there and buy yourself a sandwich.”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ll have half with you, get on with it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made his way up the till purposefully ordering a cheese and pickle sandwich because John didn’t like them. He returned a few minutes later, sandwich in hand. He handed a half to John.

“Here.”

“Sherlock, this is cheese and pickle.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Yes. I don’t like cheese and pickle.”

“When was your last meal John?” Sherlock mock sighed.

“On the train.” John muttered.

“Exactly John. Sometimes with our cases you forget you’re human, you get carried away, you should take better care of yourself.”

John glared at Sherlock and took a grudging bite of the sandwich.

“This is foul.” John muttered.

“Yes but I’m only going to eat if you are.”

“So if I bought myself my own sandwich…”

“No John, you said you’d have half with me.”

John pulled a face and took another bite of cheese and pickle. He chewed slowly before deciding that on his next mouthful he was going to hold his nose. Sherlock burst into hysterical laughter as John held his nose and tipped his head back, chewing furiously on the sandwich before giving an exaggerated swallow before taking a second mouthful.

“There’s no need to be such a drama queen John.”

“Buy me something nice.”

“Someone is demanding today.”

“You bought me cheese and pickle you dick!”

“I’ll get you a cookie.” Sherlock said soothingly, standing up and re-joining the queue. Returning seconds later, biscuit in hand. “Here. Can I borrow your laptop a second?”

“Uh sure.” John said turning the laptop around for Sherlock.

Sherlock quickly typed in the address for the mobile phone tracker and noted down the newest location for their serial killer. Tenby. A town. In wales.

“Cheers ‘Lock, chocolate chip is my favourite,” John said, taking a huge bite out of the cookie at which point Sherlock burst in to a fit of laughter.

“I know chocolate chip if your favourite, hence why I got you raisin.”

John glared and threw a chunk of cookie at Sherlock’s forehead seconds before a piece of cheese and pickle sandwich hit his nose and slid off resulting in a full blown food fight.

Needless to say, they got kicked out of Costa Coffee.

“We need to grow up.” John wheezed with laughter as they leant against a wall outside.

“Growing up is boring,” Sherlock replied, sliding his hand into John’s.

“Very true. And at least we aren’t laughing at a crime scene again.”

“Also true.” Sherlock chuckled, leaning down to dot kisses into John’s hair.

“Get off you big nerk” John grinned swatting Sherlock away.

“Nerk John? That’s a new one, wasn’t it overly used in fifties?”

“I don’t know. First thing that came to me.”

“It’s a terrible word.”

“I know, never using it again.”

“Sensible man.” Sherlock replied, “Back to the hotel? They said they’d have our floor dry by now.”

“Sure why not.”


	21. Chapter 21

** Chapter Twenty One **

Sherlock was irritated. They’d been in Truro searching the city for some clue as to what Will was doing and still there was nothing. Will had progress through Hereford, Aberdeen and Newry, where he was currently residing, he’d been there two days and Sherlock was anxious to solve the code and beat him too his next destination but so far nothing.  He was giving up. This Will guy was good, and he was only twenty, yet he had planned the whole thing out as well as Moriarty. Sherlock considered the possibility for a second… Moriarty had been known to hire people to do his dirty work; just look at the first case Sherlock and John had ever taken on together. But Moriarty was dead. He could’ve faked like Sherlock had- no, there was too much blood to be fake and he’d had enough threats from Sebastian Moran (before Sherlock had bumped him off of course). Sherlock had no clue where to start, he was completely stuck. Every part of new information thrown at him there was still something out of reach. It was almost as though the information he had was from three separate cases.

Sherlock lay spread-eagle on the bed in the hotel room thinking, his thoughts running through his head as he struggled, yes _struggled_ , to piece the case together.

“Sherlock, I think we should move towns.” John voice invaded Sherlock’s thoughts, “We’ve found nothing here. I’m starting to think we’re on a wild goose chase.”

“John there’s got to be a clue, something-“

“I’m not sure there is Sherlock. He’s smarter than us- Don’t give me that look, you know it too.”

“He knows we’re following him though. That’s the most infuriating part! That’s why he went to Tenby instead of here. He knew we were here. He’s good at technology; he’s probably tracking our phones like we’re tracking his. There’s nothing we can do. I hate this feeling!”

“I know. I know. Are we going to pack up and head to Hereford?”

“I don’t think we have much choice.”

“No, neither do I. You know Hereford is an over four hour drive away?”

“It’s going to take a while via train then.”

“Yes, hopefully though, if everything is running on time we’ll get there quicker than if we were to drive.”

“You make a good point John. Packing time?”

“Yes. You can start by clearing up your pile of clothes in that corner of the room.”

“Urgh, fine.” Sherlock grumbled, shuffling over to the pile and haphazardly throwing his clothes into a suitcase.

“Ah, no Sherlock. Stop there. Sort out the dirty things.”

“John what’s the point?”

“Because Sherlock, your clothes do no magically get clean and at some point I’m going to find a dry cleaners or a laundrette and I’m going to take all our washing there and sort it out. Because I’m not going to find you as attractive if you’re traipsing around in dirty clothes.”

“Alright. Alright. I get it, clean and dirty clothes need separating. I’m doing it.” Sherlock walked over and made a large fuss over separating the clothes into piles and putting them into the suit case in an orderly fashion.


	22. Chapter 22

** Chapter Twenty Two **

They had trawled through Hereford, Ely, Ripon and Exeter and found themselves in Newport. Of course, they had found nothing, generally only staying in hotels one night as they searched vents, lobbies and floors upon floors of rooms. Sherlock was frustrated. John was also frustrates and missing the comfort of Baker Street. He grew attached to places quickly and the amount of travelling they were doing meant that he no longer had the chance to drink homemade tea, made to his exact expectations and specific to the way he liked it. That was the thing about being a tea drinker, everyone else simply just did it wrong. John longed for a mug filled with his favourite brand of tea mixed with enough milk to pale it slightly, proper milk, not the kind you got at dodgy (but cheap) cafes that made it look as though little lumps of god-knows-what were floating in your perfect brew. John shuddered at the thought. He longed to open the mini-fridge at the hotels and find a severed head or maybe just eyeballs that suggested that Sherlock had grown comfortable enough in his surroundings to experiment. John missed the bullet holes in the wall and that ridiculous smiley face sprayed on the wall in bright yellow spray paint. The worst part? Sherlock hadn’t bought his violin. It was amazing what John would now give in order to be kept awake by Sherlock playing beautiful classical music until two in the morning.

Sherlock wanted to go home too. Cases were only fun if he was really impressing people and solving lots of clues. However he was away with John, who knew when and how to fuel Sherlock’s ego (which, needless to say, hadn’t been happening enough recently) and there were no village idiots of Scotland Yard (i.e. Anderson). He had found a grand total of nothing in the six days they had been away from home and the case was beginning to get boring. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Will wasn’t leaving a breadcrumb trail over the country. It was something else. He was going to have to sit for a very long time in silence in his mind palace. It was probably going to take a few days. He should probably warn John, it’d worry him. Most importantly, however, was that he needed to go home to stable (and cheap) internet connection which he knew wouldn’t be monitored because Mycroft was already doing that and he’d notice if there was someone invading Sherlock and John’s internet history.

“John, I think we should go home.” Sherlock interrupted the silence in the hotel room, he was flopped back on an armchair in the corner and John lay splayed across the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He sat up as Sherlock spoke.

“What?”

“Home. This isn’t doing any good. I don’t like these hotel beds, your sleep patterns are become more restless than usual and I haven’t found anything. At all. And we probably aren’t. You don’t like being away from home/ the places you grow attached too/ the people you love. That’s why you found it so hard to leave Afghanistan- No I’ll stop there. You don’t like it when I deduce you. I can’t turn it off John. This ton of nothing has broken my brain John. I can’t remember how to work; my mind goes round in circles. We need to go home. He’s moved back to Hereford, then to Armagh then Nottingham where he stayed two days then back to bloody Truro, then Hull, Inverness and now he’s in Swansea, we still can’t predict his movements and we won’t catch him because the majority of these are all cities and we don’t know how fast he’s moving or when he’ll stop.”

“If you think home is ideal I’m all for it. I’m dying for a decent night’s sleep. I hate hotel room beds if I have to stay in them for weeks.”

“Pass a suitcase then. I’ll start packing.”


	23. Chapter 23

** Twenty Three. **

Sherlock and John returned home the next day. Will had stayed put in Swansea overnight and Mrs Hudson had cleaned their flat because, of course she was ( ~~not)~~ their house keeper. Sherlock was marginally disgruntled to find out that Mrs Hudson had removed all of the body parts from the fridge and had thrown them out. However he was thrilled to find that his sock index was in order, John’s gun was still where John couldn’t find it (he had this awful habit of taking it away from Sherlock so that more bullet holes weren’t put in the walls) and that the skull still sat with pride (and if you haven’t seen a skull sit with pride you clearly haven’t seen this one) on the mantelpiece where Sherlock had left it. John was simply pleased to find that after hearing that Sherlock and himself were returning to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson had gone out and bought them some milk. He immediately pounced on the kettle and filled it with water, finding his favourite mug (which Sherlock had bought for him for Christmas one year) and searching through the cupboard for the box of tea bags, thrilled to find that for once there were no test tubes containing dubious substances floating around in the same cupboard and instead finding only teabags and an old note that said “I hate this type of tea. Stop accepting gifts from Mycroft and buy the half decent one that I like from Tesco-SH”

John chuckled to himself before calling over to the living room where Sherlock was sat in silence on the couch, “Fancy a cup of tea?”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“Sherlock! Fancy a cup of tea?”

Still no answer. John rolled his eyes and crossed the living room, waving his hand in front of Sherlock’s eyes receiving no response.

“Tango, Echo, Alpha?” John called, this time reaching to check Sherlock’s pulse.

“Say that again.”

“What?”

“You were speaking, what did you say?”

“Did you want tea?”

“No, after that.”

“Tango, Echo, Alpha…”

“Yes I would like tea.”

“You required me to speak in the phonetic alphabet so that you could understand that I was offering you tea?”

“No. It just sounded relevant. But to what I don’t know.”

“Oh, okay. That was a yes to tea?”

“Yes please.”

John smiled, the kettle switching off just as he entered the kitchen, he poured the water into his mug first, leaving the tea bag in while he put the kettle on to boil again quickly while he found a mug for Sherlock. He poured the water over the tea bag in Sherlock’s mug before turning his attention to his mug of tea, squashing the tea bag down with the spoon before throwing it away and turning to Sherlock’s to do the same. He added a splash of milk to each cup before returning to the living room.

“Tea.” He said holding the mug in front of Sherlock’s face. “Tea. For you. Nice and warm. Drink.”

“Pardon John?” Sherlock asked, snapping back to reality.

“Nice cup warm cup of tea for you.”

“Oh thanks, just put it on the coffee table.”

“No problem, I’m going upstairs to unpack and sort the rest of our washing out.”

Two Hours later Sherlock came back to reality and finally decided to take a sip of his tea.

“John, the tea is cold!”

“That’s because I made it two hours ago!”

“You can’t give me two hour old tea and tell me it’s nice and warm!”

“No you idiot I gave it to you two hours ago!” John yelled from the kitchen as he tried (and failed) to cram all the washing into the washing machine.

“John! I want another cup of tea.”

“Get it yourself.”

“But John!”

“No.” John replied, finally slamming the door shut before realising that he’d forgotten to put the washing tablet in and groaning as he now faced the impossible challenge of opening the door up and putting the tablet in before all of the washing spilled out over the kitchen floor. John grabbed the tablet and opened the door, shoved the tablet in and shut the door at lightning speed, almost trapping his hand in the door but pulling it out just in time.

“Please John?” Sherlock whined, appearing in the doorway before striding over to hug John from behind, placing little kisses on his neck, “Please make me a cup of tea. I love you very much.”

“No.” John repeated. He would not give in to Sherlock’s sweet talking.

“Please, please, please John?” More kisses attacked the back of John’s neck.

“I’m still saying no Sherlock.”

Sherlock spun John around, captured his lips and crowded him up against the kitchen counter, “Please?” he asked, his voice slightly lower than usual.

“No.”

Sherlock flew at John’s lips again, this time nibbling slightly on his lower lip.

“Please?” Kiss, “Please?” Kiss, “Please?” Kiss, “Please?” Kiss, “Please?” Kiss, “Please?” Kiss, kiss, kiss-

“Stop it! Nice try Sherlock but I’m not making you another cup of tea. I’ve just finished unpacking and sorting our laundry for the wash while you’ve been sat doing what exactly?”

“Trying to crack his code John! It doesn’t translate to anything in Morse code, even though that rarely works, U.M.Q.R.A remember?”

“Definitely not making you tea now.”

“Oh come on John that was a brilliant case!”

“It was an awful case. You drugged me!”

“It was for the good of the case!”

“Forget the good of the case! What about the good of me?”

“You’d have been fine John. Look at Henry, he still had arms, legs, a head-“

“An incredibly messed up head if I remember rightly. He nearly murdered someone.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop being all ‘it didn’t happen and therefore it couldn’t have happened’ you and I both know that there was the possibility it could’ve.”

“What could have?”

“Everything!”

Sherlock paused. This wasn’t working as well as he’d have like it to. “Please make me tea John.”

“No.” John replied, giving Sherlock his final answer, going upstairs to relax on their bed. Half an hour later Sherlock joined him, bringing an offering of biscuits and curling up next to John, draping an arm round his waist.

“I bought biscuits. They’re jammy dodgers.”

“Thank you Sherlock. I’m tired though, not hungry.”

“I made my own tea.”

John grinned.

“It wasn’t as nice.”

“Are you trying to guilt trip me Sherlock?”

“No! It was a compliment. Promise.”

“I’ll believe you thousands wouldn’t.”

“Actually they would. Consulting detective, remember?”

John chuckled, “The only one in the world, and my fantastic partner.”

“Exactly. You’re not bad yourself either you know.”

“Compliment?”

“Compliment. Not good?”

“No, just not one of your best.”

“Oh, I knew that.  But it was a still a compliment, I’m not denying it wasn’t a great one, the tea compliment was better than

that.”

“Yes, yes it was.” John chuckled again, turning his head to kiss the top of Sherlock’s, “What’re we going to do about this case?”

“Give up? I don’t know. I can’t find anything John. We won’t catch him. We don’t actually know what he looks like. We just know he exists.”

“Where’s he located now?”

“Swansea. All I know is that tomorrow he’ll have moved, though god knows where. I feel like I’ve missed something John, but what I can’t work out. Lestrade’s clueless, I’m clueless, fucking Mycroft is clueless. No one knows a thing about him! Even the friends of the victim’s haven’t got much of a clue about him. We never investigated ‘Et tu Brute’s' friends, but let’s face it, no one else’s friends have been any use. We don’t know who he is but I’m not sure if that’s going to help, not when our killer is zigzagging up and down the country. He’s too clever John. I keep wondering if it’s Moriarty, but even if he wasn’t dead, far more people than this would be! He’d be toying with us more, there’d be more explosives but I can’t help but worry. It’s completely irrational and yet… I’m worried John. I don’t really want another mess on my hands. I only just worked it out last time, what if I don’t manage it this time. It’s a high flying possibility. Although, I think Mycroft would’ve said something more that his usual snide remarks if he thought Moriarty was back and he thought I hadn’t noticed. Moreover, I don’t think Moriarty has the acting skills to pull off the character of a twenty year old. The thought still makes me uncomfortable though. I don’t really want to leave you again and I certainly don’t want to have to jump off anymore roofs. I just gah. It’s hard.”

John hummed sympathetically and sat up, moving Sherlock’s head into his lap and gently massaging his temples.

“If it helps Sherlock, I don’t think it’s Moriarty. We’d know by now, I’d have been kidnapped or you’ve been nearly shot and we’d have both come pretty damn close to being blown up. I think we can safely say he is dead as a doornail.”

“That’s Dickens.”

“I know, the only book of his I actually liked. ‘Great Expectations’ was dire.”

“But, it was long enough to keep my seven year old brain interested so I read it. I did think he was always very stupid for chasing Estella so closely as a child, I could never understand it. She wasn’t very nice and moreover, she was a _girl_. At seven years old girls were boring. They didn’t want to look at dead rats or experiment with the frogspawn at the duck pond and they did not want to play pirates and look for clues to dig up the buried treasure. They were icky. Of course, had I known Molly at that age I think I may have found her job more interesting. Although whether I wanted to see a human cadaver because it seemed cool or because it was a way of rebelling against my mother I’ll never know.”

“I know about rebelling against parents, although I did it in the more conventional sense. I turned sixteen, smoked a cigarette, decided it tasted awful, pretty much coughed up a lung and decided never again. I wish I could say it was easier to avoid alcohol. Sixteen year old me liked that far too much. I could’ve easily turned out like Harry, but thankfully I managed to avoid it.”

“And I went straight for drugs the moment I left for uni. You didn’t do as badly as me when it came to looking after yourself.”

“No that’s true. But your mind wouldn’t shut up so I suppose that’s half an excuse. All I can really say is I really, really liked the taste of alcohol and the way it made me tipsy. At least I never had a black eye liner and dyed black hair stage like Greg did apparently.”

“Lestrade wore eye liner and dyed his hair? How do you know?”

“When we go for our annual drink no end of interesting topics come up. God, I only wish I’d had the chance to see the photos.”

“Me too, that would be brilliant.”

“What about Mycroft, did he have a stage of rebellion?”

“Oh, yes, he used to have a thing for our chef’s son, father did not approve of him dating the ‘staff’ he was a stuck up idiot. Never liked him much, I was almost glad when he died, but it upset mummy so much and I didn’t like seeing her upset.”

“Your mum didn’t mind?”

“No, she was always trying to get my father to see sense. But he was so stuck up. He had been bought up by some of the most irritating and intolerant people the country has ever seen and didn’t understand that everyone was actually equal. He was pretty much bought up like a Victorian.”

“Sounds like a fun guy.”

“Oh you have no idea.”

“I like your mum though, she’s lovely. How did she end up marrying your dad?”

“Arranged marriage, like I said, something out of the Victorian era.”

“God that’s so weird in comparison to my parents. They meet at medical school and that was it. Obviously then my dad went off to join the army after Harry was born and my mum had me while he was away so he got leave for a bit and then decided to quit and become a surgeon.”

“Sounds like your childhood was better than mine.”

“I wouldn’t say so, watching Harry mess up was not fun and lead to no end of arguments between my mum and dad. When she came out they both went mental and she was thrown out, which is how she met Clara, they were flat mates for a while and then things happened, a little like us.”

“Yes, a little bit.” Sherlock agreed with a little laugh, “Though of course, we’re still together.”

“Yes, although my parents still aren’t talking to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault. You can’t help that I’m attracted to you.”

“It was more of a sympathetic sorry.”

“I wouldn’t be sorry, I prefer being happy with you than constantly failing when trying to date women.”

“That was partially my fault.”

“Yes, but I came on cases with you because I was getting bored of them. They never were as interesting as you were with your cheek bones and your stupid attractive coat and your weird brother and insane job.”

“You are right. Those women were dull. Sarah was okay, I’m surprised she hung around as long as she did, especially after she was nearly shot at with a cross bow.”

“It wasn’t one of my most successful dates was it? Especially as they thought I was you.”

“Yes, they clearly were total idiots.”

“This is why we put out picture on the blog. Having the criminals tell us is very important. I don’t want to be shot at again. That’s why I left Afghanistan remember?” John joked.

“Not because you got shot?”

“Oh, no, that wasn’t a contributing factor at all.” John chuckled, “I just felt a magnetic pull towards England, I knew that the love of my life was there and I had to find him!”

“And you tell me I’m dramatic.”

“I’m allowed to be dramatic, I’m the author.”

“John, you are a blogger.”

“I am an author!”

“Of course.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You could be an author if you’d like. I could see you being a fantastic children’s author.”

“I think the cases are enough. I couldn’t think up good stories for children anyway.”

“I’m sure you could, I could see you writing fantastic stories about an otter named Sherlawk and a hedgehog called Jawn who run about solving mysteries together.”

“I’d need an illustrator though. We both know I can’t draw.”

“Not if you were to write for seven year olds.”

“Not if those seven year olds are too busy reading Great Expectations and other ridiculously hard books for their age.”

“That was only me.”

“I’ll consider it but I enjoy our cases too much. Maybe when we retire and have that lovely little cottage in the country. You can keep bees while I write children’s books and we reminisce about our cases.”

“Sounds pleasant. I like bees.”

“Yes, I know, you have billions of books about them.”

“They’re fascinating.”

“I’ve heard.”

“I like honey.”

“You like sugar.”

“I like you.”

“You love me.”

“Funny that, you love me too. Though I can see up your nose from down here.”

“How incredibly romantic Sherlock. I will never forget how stunningly soppy you can be.”


	24. Chapter 24

** Chapter Twenty four **

Many, many weeks had passed. The case lay almost unforgotten, Sherlock was still tracking the killer but was no longer trying to catch him, there wasn’t any point. He wasn’t actually doing anything. The deaths had stopped, he simply appeared to be playing games now, and of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, he was refusing to conform. Oxford, Farringdon, Johnstone, Oxford, Hereford, Norwich, Worcester, Aberdeen, Truro (again, seriously, did the killer have some kind of obsession?), Swansea, Oxford, Newport, Armagh, Newry, Dundee, Hull, Inverness, Salford, Ripon, Oxford, Manchester, Exeter. Tomorrow it would probably change, similar to the days of the week or the months of the year. Of course, the days of the week and the months of the year only ever went in the same order (which at the age of three Sherlock had been devastated to find out, he was hoping his birthday would come early that  year).

John had gone back to work, he’d also worked over time for Sarah in order to make up the fact that he’d been away. She hadn’t been impressed. To be fair, she still wasn’t that impressed, but John had made up his hours and returned home late for three weeks and she felt like she should forgive him a little bit, so John was back on normal working hours (though Sarah still sent the screaming kids his way as revenge).

John had finally gotten round to hiring a milk man which resulted in less arguments with the chip and pin machine in Tesco, it also resulted in more tea, despite the fact that John kept making Sherlock coffee and putting in about thirty spoonfuls of sugar and lashings of milk just to annoy him, and possibly teach him to do it himself, however, the main part of it was that it annoyed Sherlock. Something that John could never quite resist doing.

All in all, everything was finally back in balance. Sherlock was solving cases (and being overly arrogant to make up for the issues he’d had on the ‘Shakespearian Code’ which was the name John had given the case) he’d found out who the man who had suffered the brutal Julius Caesar murder was (though of course, Sherlock kept reminding John that is wasn’t actually that brutal as the victim had been dead before he’d been stabbed) and it was revealed that he was the leader of a theatre group Will had attended. He’d been refused the part of Richard in, yes, you guessed it, Richard III which had probably led to the leader’s death. Sherlock had then gone on to solve several complicated murders (well the yard said they were complicated, Sherlock solved them in a manner of seconds, redeeming himself entirely), refuse yet another knighthood from his brother due a rather simple case of  retrieving a certain missing crown (the crown jewels? Who said anything about the crown jewels?) And blowing up the microwave, which meant that they had to revisit the dreaded Ikea once again resulting in yet more hours of their lives wasted as Ikea failed to provide half decent signs around there shop and continued to place out of stock products that were no longer being made on their kitchen unit displays. Of course, blowing up the microwave also meant that John actually had to attempt to cook, which he had tried twice, before singeing the kitchen and giving up and ordering takeaway for the rest of the week. Obviously, when she saw the state of the kitchen, Mrs Hudson was far from impressed and gave ‘her boys’ a rather ‘severe’ talking too (which Sherlock and John both withheld sniggers through, bursting into hysterical fits of laughter as she had left). Seventeen more bullet holes had graced the walls in a fit of boredom from Sherlock, John was furious for all of sixteen minutes while he had lectured Sherlock on using _his_ gun, issued to _him_ , by the army. Sherlock then shot the wall twice more for luck. John had to find a new hiding place for the weapon of wall destruction.

 On this particular day Sherlock had spent the majority of his lunchtime humiliating the yard before returning home to watch Doctor Who with John. They’d watched all of Sherlock’s favourite episodes with both the ninth and tenth Doctor and they had decided they were hungry.

“What do you fancy then Sherlock?” John asked getting up from the couch to wander over to the phone.

“Food from that new Indian down the road.”

“But it doesn’t deliver Sherlock.” John whined.

“But I want tika-masala.” Sherlock whined back.

“I don’t want to go and get it.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then we won’t order from there.”

“But I want to order from there.”

“I don’t want to go and get it.”

“Please, I’ll do it next time I promise.”

“Eurgh. Fine.” John gave up.

He dialled the number for the curry place before pulling on his coat and giving Sherlock a quick good bye kiss. “I’ll be back in a bit. Entertain yourself.”


	25. Chapter 25

** Chapter Twenty Five **

John wandered down the now fairly quiet London streets, the air had a slight bite to it and he was thankful for the coat he had pulled tightly around himself. In the distance he could hear the sound of cars, but, as with many cities, the closer you got to the places people lived the further away the sounds of human life seemed. It wasn’t ridiculously late, only nine o’clock on a Wednesday, but at this point the habitants of London would be inside and the commuters would have left the city and returned to their families.

John rounded the corner onto a dimly lit street and walked hurriedly down it, not wanting to linger in the dark for long. He heard footsteps behind him and he turned to see the person behind him when everything went dark.

John woke, possibly hours later (there was no way of knowing, he had no watch and he couldn’t see outside) under the bright lights of- he couldn’t even tell. He felt a sharp pain in his right bicep and attempted to turn his head to see, but blacked out a second later.


	26. Chapter 26

** Chapter Twenty Six **

John hadn’t come home. John was gone. He’d been gone hours. John wasn’t answering his phone. Sherlock couldn’t find him. He’d searched. He’d rung Lestrade. Mycroft. Molly. Bloody Sarah. Nothing. Gone.

Sherlock was scared. Terrified. Something stronger than that though. John didn’t normally vanish. As far as Sherlock could tell he hadn’t upset John. He hadn’t wanted to fetch food, but if he’d heard how panicked Sherlock’s voicemails were; He’d be home. He wasn’t home. Sherlock paced. Thinking. Trying to think. His mind in uproar. He couldn’t think. John was in danger. 

Will.

The answer dawned on Sherlock. Will. It could be Will. It had to be. Oh he was clever. Very clever. Apparently smarter than Sherlock. Where had he taken John? Probably the next place on his map, but he could move quickly. And he could kill John quicker.

Truro, Hereford, Ely, Ripon, Exeter, Newport, Edinburgh, Ventnor, Ely, Ripon, Wolverhampton, Aberdeen, Southampton, Aberdeen, Truro, Armagh, Leeds,  Exeter , Oxford, Flitwick,  Manchester, Oxford, Ripon, Edinburgh, Worchester, Oxford, Ely, Tenby, Hereford, Armagh, Nottingham , Truro, Hull, Armagh, Nottingham, Truro, Hereford, Inverness, Swansea, Oxford, Farringdon, Johnstone, Oxford, Hereford, Norwich, Worcester, Aberdeen, Truro, Swansea, Oxford, Newport, Armagh, Newry, Dundee, Hull, Inverness, Salford, Ripon, Oxford, Manchester, Exeter.

Oxford.

Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot etc. He was good. Oh that was clever. Will was clever. And of course, Sherlock hadn’t been looking. Not really.

“There never was a tale of more woe,   
Than this of John Watson and his Romeo.”

John was in Oxford. Hidden somewhere. The killer had been giving Sherlock a chance. Sherlock had missed it. He kicked himself mentally for a minute before silently celebrating that all hope was not lost. Then he remembered the end of Romeo and Juliet. They both ended up dead. What if John was already dead? No. That wasn’t a thought he was allowed to think. Delete it. It kept coming back. GO AWAY. Delete again. Still came back.

Aware that was not completely in control of himself Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, throwing them on before sprinting out the door, remembering (just) to grab his keys.

He grabbed the first train out of London going to Oxford. Feeling a twinge of emotion as he remembered how John had teased him the last time he was stood on a cold train platform. To stop the loneliness he texted John again.

[Message sent: 02:14]  
I’m coming.-SH  
I’m sorry.-SH  
Try and stay alive.-SH  
It’s Romeo and Juliet.-SH

He put his phone away. No point texting John. He was unlikely to be conscious. _More likely dead_. Shut up brain. Delete thought. Even if John was awake, he might not have his phone. Or maybe he was tied up, phone in pocket and could hear it buzzing. He’d know it was Sherlock. He must know Sherlock was coming. When didn’t Sherlock come? There wasn’t a point he could remember when he hadn’t come for John. He had gone to the pool. They’d nearly died at the pool. They’d nearly died twice. He remembered what John had looked like the first time he’d seen the dots from the snipers gun. John looked like he knew the situation. John was a soldier. He’d fought. He’d been shot. He had already known what having a sniper’s laser pointed at him had felt like. ‘Please god let me live.’ Those had been the words John had spoken the first time, he’d thought them again at the pool.

Why wasn’t the train going faster? John was in trouble. Why didn’t the whole world understand what that meant? John was important. Far more important that the other idiots Sherlock was forced to share the world with. Forced to share air with. There were too many Andersons. Two hours until he got to John. Anything could happen. John could be hurt. Tortured. John could be killed. John could be lost forever. That was scary. Sherlock needed John.

Half an hour passed. Sherlock paced up and down the aisle on the train. He tried to focus on other things. No gun. He was an idiot. He hadn’t taken the gun. He hadn’t thought. Of course he hadn’t, he had been too busy panicking. He was going to have to rely on brute force. Idiot. Stupid, stupid idiot.

No one knew he had gone. He needed to text Lestrade. He needed to calm down and think.

[Message Sent: 02:50]  
John’s been kidnapped. Gone to Oxford to rescue him. Send help as soon as possible. The Shakespeare Murderer has him.-SH

It also occurred to him that he should text Mycroft. He was probably already tracking Sherlock though, there was probably wasn’t much point. In order to spite him Sherlock chose not to text Mycroft.

Another half hour had passed. Sherlock said down, drumming his fingers in a steady rhythm across his thigh until the tendons in his hand ached. Greg finally replied.

[Message Received: 03:25]  
Sherlock Holmes. You are an idiot. This had better be good. I do not appreciate being woken up. I am coming. Do not do anything stupid. Where are you?-GL

[Message Sent: 03:27]  
On a train.-SH

Greg didn’t reply. Sherlock wished he’d bought his gun for a second time. This time because he wanted to shoot the walls of the train out of frustration. He needed something to do. John had entertained him last time. He had bought Sherlock the wrong coffee. Despite the fact that Sherlock had been annoyed at the time, he now looked back on the memory fondly. John did that a lot: Annoy Sherlock but do it in such a way that made Sherlock look back on the memory fondly. John had to be okay. He wasn’t allowed to be not okay.

What if it was Moriarty? That constant nagging question Sherlock had asked since he’d realised he was being played with. Moriarty was dead. But then again, Sherlock had been dead too. He’d had a reason to stay alive though, he’d had to get back to John. Moriarty had had no one. Wrong. He’d had that stupid sniper. The stupid sniper who’d pointed a gun at John. His John. The sniper who had been foolish enough to be ready to shoot John. Sort of like this killer. He’d been stupid enough to kidnap John.

The final hour passed, the train pulled up to the station, Sherlock felt completely lost.


	27. Chapter 27

** Chapter Twenty Seven **

The feeling of being lost had passed. Sherlock had sprinted through Oxford, searching for something that was going to be of some use. It had taken him hours to find something. An abandoned registry office. Adrenalin was Sherlock’s new best friend. At this point, it was the only thing keeping him running. He broke his way through the door, slamming his foot into the wood near the lock, causing the door to splinter and allowing Sherlock to push onwards into the room.

It was empty, well almost empty. At the other end of the room lay a body lay on a bench. John’s body. Lying still. In other words not moving. At all.

Sherlock charged to the end of the room, immediately taking his pulse in the same way John had after he’d jumped from the roof of Saint Barts. Nothing. Nothing at all. Sherlock’s hand was shaking as he brushed John’s hair from his eyes and leant down to kiss his cheek- a tear dropping onto John’s face- Sherlock was crying. When had he started doing that? He didn’t normally do that. He thought he’d taught his body not to do that. Tears never solved anything.

He was too late. He knew he’d be too late. Stupid, stupid Sherlock.

On a piece of paper beside John Will had obviously been thoughtful enough to write a note:

“To be or not to be, that is the question  
Whether t’is nobler in the mind to suffer  
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune  
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles  
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep  
No more. And by a sleep we say we end  
The heart ache and a thousand natural shocks  
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream; Ay, there’s the rub”

 

Sherlock understood the meaning of the note immediately. Wrong play of course, but the meaning was there. Sherlock was supposed to kill himself rather than suffer the pain of John’s death. Afterwards Sherlock would still be unsure as to whether or not he would’ve followed John. At the time he simply decided to attempt to distract himself.  
  
“John…” He croaked, pressing several feverish kisses to John’s face. “John… I’m sorry. Wake up. No that’s stupid… stop being dead. Stop it now. That’s an order Watson… I’m sorry I sent you to get food. I won’t do it again. I promise. Just stop it now. I did it John. So can you. John- John- John…” Sherlock gave up on trying to talk John back into living. He threaded his fingers through John’s warm- Warm hands. John should be cold by now. The room was freezing.

With renewed hope Sherlock raised his hand to cup John’s cheek. Also warm. Gently he shook John, no response. But soon, maybe.


	28. Chapter 28

** Chapter Twenty Eight   **

Hours passed, John didn’t wake, but his skin stayed warm. Sherlock discovered that he could still find a pulse, it was faint and weak, but it was there. It was roughly six o’clock in the morning when John stirred.

“John?” Sherlock mumbled, fairly sure he’d seen John moving despite the fact Sherlock was so sleep deprived it was possible for him to be hallucinating.

“Shlock?” John mumbled back. He head was agony and everything looked blurry.

Sherlock was at John’s side in seconds, the fuzz off sleep vanishing completely, “Are you hurt?” Sherlock asked, slipping his hand into John’s and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“No… I don’t think so.”

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“You went to get food and this happened. I thought you were dead, he made it look like you were dead.”

“Who?” John furrowed his eyebrows and began to sit up slowly.

“Will.”

“The murderer?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t he kill me?”

“You were going to kill yourself.”

“What?!”

“Romeo and Juliet John. I was supposed to come up here, think you were dead and kill myself and then you were supposed to follow. Easiest murder in the world, unfortunately Will forgot I work with dead bodies and your skin was warm.”

“Did you consider it?”

Sherlock wondered whether he should deny it; tell John that he’d have carried on living regardless. He was too tired to lie. “Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Until I realised you still had warm hands.” Sherlock admitted quietly, “Do you think you can walk or do you feel groggy?”

“I can walk. Hold onto me.” John directed, looping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to find his balance as he stood.

“Sorry my friends, you aren’t going anywhere.” A voice echoed at the opposite end of the room. Directly in front of the room. Will (or who Sherlock assumed was Will) stepped out of the shadows and held a gun out at Sherlock and John.

“The police know where we are.” John said as a reflex.

“How would you know? You’ve been playing the part of Juliet.”

“Sherlock told me.”

“No, no. Romeo told you. Come on boys, all the worlds a stage. PLAY ALONG!” Apparently this man could give Moriarty a run for his money when it came to mood swings.

“The police do know where we are.” Sherlock added, hoping to be able to buy some time. He’d texted Lestrade; he could only hope the detective inspector would find them, though he hadn’t turned up yet…

“And like the poor people of fair Verona, they won’t find you two until it’s too late.” Will leered.

“It’s sort of dirty in here isn’t it?” Sherlock said in a slightly offhand manner, remembering the unhealthily clean state of Will’s bedroom.

 _‘Clever Sherlock’_ John thought to himself before joining in. “You know, it is kind of grimy.”

“It’s not a very clean is it?” Sherlock asked, watching Will visibly shudder; hopefully this would buy them some time. “But then again, none of your victim’s murder sights have been that clean, especially when compared to your bedroom.”

“They were murders, they weren’t going to be clean, my bedroom was where I could wash these spots of blood from my hand. But even then they wouldn’t go.”

“Why do it Will? Why do it if the spots of blood irritated you. Think of all the mess.”

“Because he was a genius. Geniuses always have the best ideas. Ophelia was the perfect murder. Throw a drunk girl over the edge of a boat and watch her drown.”

“But it wasn’t just a drunk girl.”

“She was invading my land! Cordelia was at war with me, first her father had come to ‘sort me out’ I had to get revenge.”

“You could’ve knocked down the fence.” John pointed out.

“Where’s the fun of that when you could be a genius?” Will asked, “And poor Caesar. If he hadn’t been so bossy and shared out the parts he’d still be alive. His death was the messiest. His blood still stains my hands. Of course, your deaths will both be messier-“

Will was cut off by the sudden entry of several police officers who were quick to handcuff and remove the criminal from the premises, Lestrade crossed the room to tell Sherlock and John to sit down before beginning to lecture Sherlock, who, as usual, didn’t listen at all.

“Sherlock that was reckless. You should’ve rung the station, I could’ve had my phone off-“

“You said you were-“

“That’s beside the point. We tracked your train, but the moment you stepped off you were off the radar. I don’t think you realised how close we came to not finding you. Oxford is huge you moron. How the hell did you find John anyway?”

“Lucky guess.” Sherlock mumbled looking down. Lestrade rolled his eyes and realised his lecture was completely pointless.

“We’ve got blankets outside for you both come on.”


	29. Chapter 29

** Chapter Twenty Nine **

Sherlock was unimpressed; he was wrapped in a shock blanket. For the second time in his life and to make matters worse, he was sat in the back of a police car being driven back to London. The only redeeming factor of the whole situation was that John was very much alive and cuddling into Sherlock’s side.

“You should sleep ‘Lock.” John mumbled, without opening his eyes.

“I’m not tired.”

“Yes you are. I saw you yawn earlier. Go to sleep Sherlock.”

Sherlock simply rested his head on top of John’s, he couldn’t be bothered to argue back and to be fair, he was very tired. John sighed happily and slid his hand into Sherlock’s and squeezed it gently. Sherlock squeezed back and shut his eyes and giving a slight yawn.


	30. Chapter 30

** Chapter Thirty **

A few weeks later the case was all wrapped up. Will went to prison and Sherlock and John were in the eyes of the public once more as they talked about the case to the press. The headlines were made of the same deerstalker related joked (‘hat-man saves the day again’) much to Sherlock’s disgust.

John typed up the case on his laptop. Sherlock complained about spelling errors and everything settled back into their daily routine. Get up at seven, have breakfast, shower, go to work, pray Sherlock hadn’t set the flat on fire, come home, try to cook, fail at cooking and order takeaway etc. John was thankful for a boring life of no crime or freezing crime scenes.

Three weeks later, Mycroft sent Sherlock a present. Tickets to watch the Royal Shakespeare Company perform Romeo and Juliet. Needless to say, the tickets were passed on very quickly to Lestrade.


End file.
